


every universe but ours

by 28finelines



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BUT THERE IS NO BABY GATE, Banter, Body Worship, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Fairy Godparents, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Happy Ending, Harry Styles Calls Louis Tomlinson Pet Names, Laughter During Sex, Laughter during Foreplay, Louis Tomlinson Calls Harry Styles Pet Names, M/M, Magical Realism, OT5 Friendship (One Direction), Sad Fluff, Smut, Soulmates, a lot of pet names, canon adjacent, don't read this for the smut, it's there but not really, it's..... kind of small but kind of not, like so many it's disgusting, mentions of past louis/ofc - Freeform, more accurately, not technically, oh uh, sorry louaylor fans it's half a sentence, very brief mention of louis not liking taylor swift, very brief mentions of beards, very vague mention of baby gate, zouis feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/28finelines/pseuds/28finelines
Summary: louis and harry have been friends with benefits for going on nine years, until a woman claiming to be louis’ fairy godmother decides to send him into a variety of alternate universes to help him find his soulmate.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Kudos: 496





	1. Before.

**Author's Note:**

> this might be the weirdest thing i have ever written. i hope you like it & if you don't that's cool too. ♥ endless thanks to [maria](https://queerharry.tumblr.com/) for being my cheerleader. i love you lots.

Lous can still hear the echo of applause when he steps off stage. Eyes closed, he takes a moment to just breath, thankful for the still pumping adrenaline that’s keeping his tired legs from collapsing under him. People are waiting for him, to congratulate him, to tell him how good he sounded, how proud they are, but right now he needs to be alone.

His phone rings. 

He doesn’t have to look to know who it is. Harry’s always been psychic when it comes to these things. 

Louis sighs, leaning his head back against the wall without opening his eyes. He feels sweaty and gross; all he wants to do is go back to his hotel, take a long hot shower, and go to bed. He pulls his phone out, stares at it for longer than necessary, thinking about ignoring the call or sending it straight to voicemail. 

He answers the phone. 

“How do you do that?” he asks, meaning: _how do you know just the right moment to call_ , but he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t need to. 

Harry’s answering laugh is bright and cheery. Louis doesn’t know where in the world Harry is or what time it is there, but he sounds _much_ too awake for Louis’ level of consciousness. The adrenaline is fading; he is going to pass out _standing up_. 

“It’s a gift,” Harry says. “When’re you gonna learn? I have a sixth sense, a _Louis_ sense, if you will.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “A sense I’m gonna hang up on you,” he grumbles. 

Harry laughs again, unperturbed. “You wouldn’t,” he says, confidently. 

As soon as Louis walks into the green room where the group is waiting, they cheer congratulations at him. Louis waves off Lottie’s questioning look, half-turned like maybe that will offer the call a modicum of protection. _Harry?_ Lottie mouths. Louis just nods, ignoring her answering smirk. It’s a pointless question. Who else would Louis bother answering the phone for right now? Who else would even call him right now? 

“You must not know me as well as you think you do,” he tells Harry, voice hushed unnecessarily -- everyone is already giving him privacy, wisphered congrats as they pass. He tries not to feel selfish as he watches them go, mumbled promises about catching up later; he sees them all the time, he reasons. 

Harry snorts. “Good luck finding someone who knows you better,” he argues. “I know you’d hang up on me just because I said you wouldn’t. You stubborn arse.” 

Louis doesn’t dignify that with a response. It’s not like Harry’s _wrong_ ; he also thinks about hanging up on Harry just because he knows that Harry doesn’t think he’d _actually_ hang up on him. Louis’s gotta keep him on his toes. He’s so tired, though; it’s been a few days since they’ve spoken on the phone, and Harry’s voice is a familiar, comforting sound in Louis’ ear. 

There’s a small cluster of fans waiting behind the gated off area outside, and Louis pauses before he steps through the door, gripping his phone more tightly. 

“Why _did_ you call?” he asks. “I’m about to leave.”

Harry hums in understanding. “Just wanted to ask you how it went. Are you going straight back to your hotel?” 

Louis catches himself nodding even though Harry can’t see him. It was his first performance in ages, and he knows why Harry is calling. “Yeah, yeah, it was great. I missed it. It went well, I think. I’ll tell you more about it when I’m not dead on my feet.”

“Is that a yes, then?” 

“Yes, Harold.” He rolls his eyes. “Where else would I be going?” 

“Dunno. Out for drinks? I’m just making small talk.”

Louis sighs, but it’s an effort to keep the soft smile off his face, and the warmth spreading through his chest is familiar. “I _have_ done this before, y’know? You don’t have to check up on me.” 

“Gonna keep doing it until you tell me to stop. Probably even then,” he muses. 

Harry fucking Styles everyone. Louis tries not to feel _too_ fond. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Louis tells him. 

“Night, Lou.” 

✰✰✰

Lottie’s hotel room is down the hall from his own, and he bids her goodnight at her door. It takes a good three or four tries to actually get the key in his own door, but finally - _finally_ \- it’s opening. He pushes in, slips the _do not disturb_ sign over the knob, and is listening to it slam shut when he realizes someone’s already in his room. 

There’s a room service cart sitting in the middle of the space. Louis can’t tell what’s on it, though, because Harry’s blocking the view.

Louis doesn’t think he should be surprised, but he is all the same. It must be the exhaustion getting to him or he would’ve seen this coming. Regardless, he feels much more awake than he did a minute ago. 

“Let me guess, ordered a bunch of food and charged it to my room?” He slides his arms out of his jacket, throws it at the chair and misses. Whatever. He kicks his shoes off in the same general direction. There’s a sudden anticipation thrumming through his veins. 

Harry doesn’t turn around right away. Louis can hear the sound of dishes clinking, or maybe it’s Harry’s rings hitting the dishes. Harry laughs. “Of course I did.” 

_That_ doesn’t surprise him. Fucking Harry Styles: has all the money in the world he could ever want and still gets Louis to pay for his food. Nothing’s changed. 

Louis pulls his jumper off, leaving him in the plain white t-shirt he’s been wearing underneath. “I didn’t realize you were in the states.” He eyes his suitcase by the bed, wonders if he should even bother changing. 

Harry finally turns around, and Louis gets an eyeful of his nearly naked chest. Harry’s button-up is undone to his navel. The ever present cross on his necklace hangs between his pecs. Louis does not stare. He is twenty-seven, nearly twenty-eight years old. He has self-control, dammit. He will not go weak at the sight of Harry’s fucking skin. 

When he finally draws his eyes up to his face, Harry is smirking. The fucker knows _exactly_ what he’s doing, probably picked out that shirt precisely for this reason. 

“Thought I’d drop by and say hi,” he says, voice deep and deceptively casual. “I didn’t know if you’d be hungry, but I ordered you a burger just in case.” 

“And this is why you’re my favorite.” Louis doesn't move any closer. He doesn’t look away from Harry. 

Harry’s grin widens. “Oh, is that why?” When his fingers play with one of the few buttons still done on his shirt, Louis follows the movement with his eyes automatically. Harry closes the space between them in three strides. “I thought you said you were tired.” Up close he smells like something sweet and fruity. His hair hasn’t been done, and it’s a mess all around his face, curling at the ends. 

“I’m fucking exhausted,” Louis answers truthfully. He tears his eyes away from Harry long enough to look at the bed, and then to the door leading off to the bathroom. He needs a shower. He walked right off stage and to the car with the intention of coming back to the hotel and doing just that. But, honestly, fuck it. If Harry wanted Louis smelling like roses and strawberries as opposed to sweat, he should’ve warned him instead of just showing up unannounced as he’s prone to do.

He turns back to Harry wordlessly. There’s no use putting off the inevitable; he knew exactly where this evening was leading as soon as he saw Harry. He reaches forward to tug Harry’s shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. He undoes the last few buttons while Harry watches on silently, making no move to help him. 

As Louis finally pushes the shirt off his shoulders, Harry lets out a deep, satisfied hum. 

“Take me to bed,” Harry says. 

Louis does. 

✰✰✰

It hasn’t always been a thing. Harry and him. It’s not even really a _thing_ now. They spent a better part of that first year dancing around each other — Louis refusing to ever take it a step further for so long, because Harry was a mere _sixteen years old_. It became an unspoken competition between them, pushing and pushing and _pushing_ , trying to make the other one give in first. Louis almost did a few times. Harry was always just _there_ , within arms reach, and Louis could never keep his hands to himself. Especially when Harry would blink those owlish green eyes innocently, like he didn’t know the effect he was having on Louis. Louis doesn’t think there’s been a day of Harry’s life he’s been _innocent_ , not when it came to this, to _them_ , but God does he pull off the look so beautifully. 

Harry was the one who snapped eventually. Seventeen, looking enticingly fuckable in the tight jeans he’d taken to wearing. They’d been out with all the boys, dancing and celebrating — what? Louis can’t even remember. He remembers the way Harry’s body had felt pressed up against his own, though. The knowledge that they were both hard and _aching_ for it, suddenly so tired of this game they were playing. They’d stumbled back to their hotel room, barely able to keep their hands off each other, even in the back of a cab. He thinks it’s a miracle no one got a picture of them. 

When they’d finally made it inside the room, Harry had said, “I need you to fuck me, or fuck off and stop teasing. Pick one.” 

Louis had. 

He thinks he made the right choice. 

Eight years and a lot has changed, but not this. Not the way Harry’s feet kick against the sheets as Louis opens him up with his fingers. Not the sounds Harry makes when Louis hits the right spot. The first time, Louis had stopped to stare, amazed he could pull those noises out of him; Harry had cussed him out, panting and desperate, until Louis had resumed. 

Nothing has changed in the way every single thought Louis has ever had goes right out of his head when Harry whines, “Fuck me, _please_.” A far cry different from five minutes ago when he was waltzing across the room like he owned the place, so confident in his ability to get Louis naked. 

Louis could tell him off for begging; any other time, maybe he would, but it’s been _weeks_ since they’ve seen each other, and only a few months since they started tentatively sleeping together again after a near year-long break Louis doesn’t like to think about. So he doesn’t say anything, just enjoys the pleading in Harry’s tone. 

He’s a beautiful thing, naked and sprawled out on Louis’ bed. Louis never gets tired of this. Even when Harry’s driving him crazy, even when they fight, Louis never stops _wanting_ him. He’d have it every day if he could. 

He doesn’t notice he’s stopped moving his fingers until Harry groans. “ _Louis_ , that’s the exact opposite of what you should be doing right now.” 

“Easy, love. Just admiring the view,” he quips. He curls his fingers _just right_ , and it tears a strangled noise out of Harry. He’s always been so responsive to this. Louis thinks _if only they could see you now_ , but no; this is just for Louis. Maybe there have been other boys, most likely, but they don’t talk about it. Louis doesn’t like to think about them. He likes to think he’s the only one who gets to see Harry like this. 

“Are you going to come if I keep doing this?” Louis asks, casual like he’s asking about the weather. He’s pretty sure he knows the answer. 

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but Louis curls his fingers again and whatever Harry was going to say is choked off. He just nods his head in response instead, mouth still hung open. 

“Don’t,” Louis says. Harry tosses his head against the pillows, groans. _Whatever_ , he likes it when Louis tells him what to do. Or, what _not_ to do. “Harry,” he says, voice harder. He grips Harry’s knee tightly. “ _Don’t_ come until I tell you to.” 

Harry nods this time, repeatedly. “Won’t. Promise.” 

Louis can tell he’s plenty ready to be fucked just by the way he’s reverted to single word sentences. Louis absentmindedly looks for the condom he dropped on the bed, but he also thinks about maybe seeing how long he can drag this out, get Harry to come on his fingers and then again when Louis’ inside him. 

“Gonna fuck me now?” Harry asks, voice somehow even deeper, eyes somehow even greener. They look glazed, and Louis pauses. He can't be that far gone already, can he? 

Louis runs a gentle hand up Harry’s leg. “Baby, look at me.” 

It takes a second, but Harry does. “Flew all this way,” he says. 

“And here I just thought you missed my pretty face,” he teases. 

“Gonne fuck me?” he asks. He’s got a one track mind when he gets like this. He’s rocking down on Louis’ fingers, and Louis should really punish him for that. It’s likely what Harry’s aiming for. 

It’s fine; Louis can play if that’s what Harry needs. “If you’re a good boy and do what I say.” 

He must not be so far gone, because he huffs, “‘m _always_ good.” He does stop moving, though, without Louis saying anything else.

Louis would _love_ to argue with him, and win — cause he would win; Harry can be a little shit when he wants to be. But inside the bedroom, he’s always Louis’ good boy, even when he’s _not_. So Louis says, “Such a good boy for me” instead because he knows what it’ll do to Harry, and he’s not above playing dirty. 

As expected, Harry preens under the praise. And then he says — whines, “ _Daddy_ ,” cause he’s _also_ not above playing dirty, the little fucker. 

The first time they’d had sex had been an awkward, fumbling mess. Still _mind blowing_ , the best Louis had ever had. But rushed and hazy. Harry, high on getting opened up with fingers that weren’t his own for the first time, had blurted, “ _Fuck_ , Daddy,” with no warning, and Louis had very nearly come right then and there. 

The next morning they could barely look at each other, but that night found Harry in Louis’ bed again. Harry had bit his lip hard enough to bleed — trying to keep himself from blurting out anything else potentially embarrassing, Louis guessed. So Louis had thought _fuck it_ , pushed Harry’s knees apart, and said, “Gonna be a good boy for Daddy?” and fucked him through three separate orgasms. 

It started off as Harry’s kink, but to this day Louis can’t say who it affects more. 

They’ve fucked, and they’ve fought. They’ve had girlfriends and boyfriends and beards. They’ve gone months without sleeping together and then turned around and fucked off to unknown towns, barely leaving the bed and each other’s company for weeks on end. It’s never been more than sex, though. Sex and friendship. It was an unspoken agreement when it first happened and later it became a spoken one. People were already convinced they were dating; Harry was being sent on fake dates left and right to cover up his sexuality; and Louis was photographed holding the hand of a girl he wasn’t remotely interested in. Suffice to say, it was complicated enough without adding _feelings_ into the mix. 

It works for them. 

Condom found, Louis puts it on and then pushes inside him, cutting off whatever Harry is about to say. He looks so pretty then, mouth agape and hair falling over his forehead. 

“What was that?” 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Harry digs his nails into Louis’ shoulders. 

Louis grins. “That’s what I thought.” 

They don’t last long. Louis pulls on Harry’s hair, sucks a mark low enough on his neck, and takes him right to the edge. He already looks floaty, and Louis can tell when it gets to be too much for him, but he waits for Harry to start asking for permission, to start begging, _please, please, please, wanna come, daddy._

He leans over Harry, hands braced on either side of his body. “Come on, baby. You’ve been so good, want you to come for me.” And when he does, completely untouched, Louis follows shortly after, the echo of Harry’s voice _daddy, daddy, daddy,_ playing in his head.

✰✰✰

He plans on sleeping in the next morning, because he _can_. Harry, the animal, wakes him up. Louis doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s much too early, so he tells Harry to kindly _fuck off_. 

Harry laughs. “I have to go.” His voice is deep, but not heavy with sleep; he must’ve been awake for awhile. 

Louis thinks he responds, maybe. Mostly he’s aware of reaching out blindly, instinctively searching. Harry intertwines their fingers and squeezes briefly. 

He presses his lips to Louis’ forehead and says, “I’ll call you later,” in that slow drawl of his. His breath is hot against Louis’ skin, and Louis kind of wants to curl up in the scent of him. He must’ve showered again. 

(They showered together last night. Though what had started as an effort to get clean had ended with Louis fucking Harry against the shower wall.) 

“Love you,” Louis just manages. 

Harry sighs in response, he thinks, but Louis falls back asleep shortly thereafter and doesn’t remember any of it when he wakes up again. 

✰✰✰

Liam calls a few days later, when Louis is back in London. He sounds proper chipper, and they play catch up for a good ten minutes before Louis asks, “So what’s really on your mind?” 

The breath that comes out of Liam sounds full bodied, which means it can only be one thing: Zayn. 

Louis thinks, if he had to guess, Liam has it the hardest out of all of them. Louis and Harry might fight, but never like Liam and Zayn do. When Louis and Harry fight, they usually just call each other out on their bullshit. They at least _talk_ to each other. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” 

Louis loves Zayn, honest — deep, deep down somewhere he’s not still holding a grudge — but he thinks: _cut your losses_.

“What happened this time?” 

“ _Nothing_ ,” Liam drawls out. “Nothing _ever_ happens. We’re on separate wavelengths. We’ll be talking, everything is fine, I think we’re working things out. And then he—” Another full-bodied sigh. “He just…. cuts me out.” 

Louis hums under his breath in thought. 

Liam sighs again. “You sound like Harry when you do that.” 

“Oi! Never say anything like that again. I’ll have to revoke our friendship.” _Hums like Harry_ , he thinks. What the fuck does that even _mean_?

“Talk like him, too,” Liam adds. “Seen him recently?” 

“A few days ago.” 

“Speaking of confusing relationships.” 

“On the contrary,” Louis points out, “my relationship with Harry is the least confusing thing in my life.” 

“ _Exactly_. What does it say when the most consistent part of your life is the guy you’ve been _casually_ sleeping with for going on nine years now?”

“That I give good head?” 

Liam grunts. 

“That _he_ gives good head?” 

“I didn’t want to know that.” 

“The point is,” Louis barrels on, “that me and Harry _communicate_ , and we know what we’re about. It works. Also we’re not, y’know, harboring feelings for each other—” (Liam snorts, but Louis ignores him.) “—we refuse to talk about like some _other_ members of One Direction I could name.” He fake coughs into the phone, because that’s just who he is as a person, and if Liam isn’t tired of him by now, he’s not going anywhere. 

“I’ve made it plenty obvious how I feel.” 

“Yeah, but have you sat down and _talked_ about it? Or have you just insinuated? You know our Zayn; he needs things spelled out for him plain and simple.” 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve told him.” 

“Well call him and tell him again. Better yet, go _over there_ and tell him. _Show_ him you mean it.” 

Liam doesn’t respond for a few long minutes, and Louis goes about his business, phone tucked between his head and shoulder. 

“It’s just… kind of scary at this point, innit? Like. We’ve tried and it hasn’t worked, so something’s just… not right. If I put myself out there again and he shoots me down…” 

“Then he’s an idiot,” Louis finishes for him. “And we’ll go out and get proper wasted. And you’ll move on, and Zayn will keep hooking up with models because that’s what he wants to do, and you’ll settle down and have two point five kids, and everything will be fine.” 

“Two point five,” Liam mocks, and then: “But what if I don’t want two point five kids? What if I just want him?” 

“That’s where the moving on part comes into play. You won’t always want him.” 

“But what if I do?” 

Louis sighs. “We could do this all day, Li. You’ll never know if you don’t put yourself out there. I don’t know what’s going on in Zayn’s head. You’re the only one of us I know he actually talks to. I can’t play mediator for you anymore. Put on your big boy pants, and _talk to him_.” 

Liam goes quiet again. Louis makes a mental note - and then a real one, in his reminders app - to do the laundry. God, he hates laundry. Where’s Harry when you need him? He needs to start packing again, too. He’s reaching a point where he feels like he shouldn’t ever _unpack_. 

“What would you do if Harry just came right out and told you he’s in love with you?” 

“It’s been eight years, as you’ve said; it would’ve happened already.” 

He doesn’t like the turn the conversation’s taken. Liam’s always probing at his situation with Harry, because he doesn’t get it. Liam’s never been able to do _casual_. Louis convinced him to try it once; Liam’s first and only “one night stand” resulted in a six month relationship. 

“What would you do if he called the whole thing off? If he said he never wanted to sleep with you again?”

The pain that courses through him at the thought is not new, but it hits him just as hard every time, leaving him momentarily breathless. He pushes away the image of Harry with someone else. Harry’s going to fall in love someday, Louis knows; someone is going to come along and whisk him away. Louis can’t think about it. 

“Please,” he scoffs. “The sex is too great. He’d never.”

“I’m serious. You’ll just move on?” 

“I’ve dated,” Louis points out. “I dated Anna for almost a year.” A year he doesn’t like to think about, he adds silently. Harry and him hardly spoke the entire time, though Louis maintains it’s cause they were both busy recording albums. It took them almost 3 months after his and Anna’s break up to start talking regularly, and then another two months to start sleeping together again. 

“Right.” Liam’s laugh startles Louis. 

“What? I liked her.” 

“Uh, huh. It had nothing to do with the _rumor_ Harry was in a relationship. Nothing at all.” 

Louis frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’re telling me you didn’t start dating Anna just to make Harry jealous?”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all.”

“It sounds _exactly_ like you.” 

Louis scoffs. “ _Anyways_. Stop trying to change the subject. You’re gonna be okay,” Louis tells him, going back to their original topic. “If Zayn’s a jerk, I’ll have Harry kick his ass.” It’s a joke; Harry wouldn’t hurt a _fly,_ let alone another human being, but it startles a laugh out of Liam, so Louis counts it as a win and follows it up with: “He would, too.” 

“‘Course he would. He does everything you ask him to.” 

Louis snorts. “Are we talking about the same Harry? Pretty sure he deliberty does the opposite of whatever I say just to fuck with me,” _outside of the bedroom_ , Louis thinks, but Liam doesn’t need to know that, “the little shit.” 

“First of all, I think that’s _you_ you’re thinking of. Secondly, pretty sure there’s about a _million_ videos on the internet that prove otherwise. But whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

“I’m hanging up now. Stay off youtube and tumblr if you know what’s good for you. Talk to your boy.” 

✰✰✰

When Lottie drags Louis shopping during a bit of free time, Louis goes along with it because they’re in the midwest, it’s early, and there’s not a lot of people around. He doesn’t really get chances like this often, and it’s hard for him to deny Lottie any time spent together just the two of them. 

They end up at a knick knack store God knows why, probably ‘cause it’s _quirky_. He loses Lottie in the aisles almost immediately, and he wonders around, looking at mugs with puns and tacky wall decorations. He finds himself in front of a display full of nautical themed trinkets. He’s in the middle of wondering if people really buy photo frames made out of fake seashells when his eye catches on something.

It’s a pearl necklace — fake, if he had to guess, because he can’t imagine a real pearl necklace would be that cheap, but what does he know? He can’t stop staring at it though, fake or not. He can’t shake the thought of it, the look of it, imagining… He’s reaching for it when he feels Lottie settle up next to him. 

“Pretty,” she says, “but I’d buy him a real one.” 

He doesn’t have to ask. She’s taken the thought right out of his head and put it into words. Because of course he’d been thinking of Harry, and of course now that he’s seen it and pictured it in his head, he’s not going to be able to think of anything else until he goes and buys one for him. 

He’s long past resisting these compulsions. 

They find a jeweler a few shops down, and Louis thanks the heavens that Lottie has decided not to say anything. Louis doesn’t know if it’s just good customer service or if Louis screams _I have a lot of money to spend_ when he walks through the door, but he’s immediately helped by a kind, older gentleman. 

“I’m looking for pearls,” Louis tells him, and he’s led to a display. There’s a lot to choose from, necklaces and bracelets and rings - which, _tempting_ , but Louis finds the necklace he wants almost immediately. Lottie wonders back up when they’re discussing length. 

“What do you think?” he asks her. 

“Well I wouldn’t say no to the choker,” she says, “but for,” she glances at the jewler, and then away so fast it’s almost imperceptible. “...I’d go with this one.” She points to the one in the middle.

He thinks she’s right and is confirmed when the jeweler refers to the necklace as _the princess_ which… of fucking course it is. Lottie presses her lips together, but doesn’t say anything. Louis just pulls out his card to pay for it and thinks about buying her whatever the fuck she wants in the store as long as she continues to keep her mouth shut. 

✰✰✰

Louis has another performance a week later. He does the interview portion and then goes back to his dressing room to freshen up before he needs to be back on set to sing. Once again, he’s surprised to find Harry lounging across the couch, looking for all intents and purposes like he belongs there. 

“If you keep showing up like this, I’m gonna start to think you like me.” 

Harry doesn’t even look up from his phone, which just goes to prove his point with Liam. If there were any kind of romantic attachment there, he’s pretty sure Harry would at least be excited to see him. He’s _here_ ,though, which means he hasn’t gone and fallen in love with anyone yet. 

“I was actually in the neighborhood this time,” Harry says. He finally looks up, smiling. “And somebody already spotted me down the block, so there was no point in not coming to see you.” 

“I’m flattered,” he deadpans. He takes off his jacket and tosses it at Harry’s face. “Gonna give me a blowjob before I go on?” 

Harry shrugs, catching the jacket before it hits him. “If you want me to. Mostly I was hoping you’d buy me food.” He grins, dimples on full display. 

“You know that face doesn’t work on me. And what are you, my kept man?” He deliberty does not think of the pearl necklace hidden away in his suitcase or the numerous rings he’s bought Harry over the years, most of which Harry still wears — is _currently_ wearing. 

Harry just bats his eyelashes exaggeratingly. 

“You’re a menace to society,” Louis tells him. “I hope you know that.” 

“You remind me quite frequently.” 

“Good, that’s my job. Gotta keep your ego in check. Tacos?” He leans out into the hallway without waiting for a response and flags the nearest worker down to see about ordering food. He knows for a fact that Harry’s favorite taco vendor is just down the street. 

They eat tacos and talk music, and Harry plays him a clip from a recent interview he did that he’s nervous about. Louis tells him how great and wonderful he is. And before Louis goes on stage, Harry smacks him on the arse and says, “Go make me proud.” 

Louis flicks him on the nose, but goes and does just that. 

✰✰✰

Afterwards they end up in Harry’s hotel room. They’re both stripped down within minutes, hands hardly straying from each other. He’s reminded of their first time, an urgency rushing through his veins. It hasn’t been that long since they’ve seen each other, less than two weeks, but Louis feels like it’s been _ages_. It hits him suddenly, how much he _wants_ , what he _needs_. He falls backward onto the bed, pulling Harry on top of him with clear intent. 

“Want me to fuck you?” Harry asks, but it’s rhetorical; he’s already going for the lube. And that right there is why there’s no point in doing this with anyone else. Why bother when Harry can read Louis’ mind? He always knows exactly what Louis needs and wants. 

Getting Harry to fuck him that first time had been an Experience, capital E and everything. They’d talked about it early on, Louis offering it up as an option, making sure Harry knew he was versatile. But Harry always froze up, shied away from the conversation in a way he hadn’t since he’d called Louis _daddy_ that first night. 

It was new territory for Louis. He’d never had to try very hard - or at all, if he’s being honest - to get boys to want to fuck him. All it took was him wearing tight pants. He’d wiggle around, underneath them, on top of them, near them on the dance floor, and it was a done deal. So Harry never taking advantage, never even wanting to _talk_ about it, made Louis nervous he didn’t actually want it. 

Which, ok. It wasn’t a deal breaker, but Louis _really_ wanted Harry to fuck him. 

Then one night, while Louis was giving Harry a blowjob, Louis had pulled back and said, “Think about you fucking me all the time,” quietly, like a confession, his voice rough. He hadn’t even been able to put his mouth back on Harry before he was coming. 

“I’m not ready,” Harry told him after. “I’m nervous.” Which was fair, Louis understood. Until Harry followed it up with: “It feels like a lot of responsibility. Like, what if I can’t get you off. What if it’s not good?” And Louis had to hide his face in Harry’s thigh to keep from laughing because _of course_ that’s what Harry was worried about. 

“Baby,” Louis assured him, “that’s not going to be a problem, I promise.” 

Harry did not seem convinced, so Louis had resorted to other tactics. 

It started off simply enough, with Louis casually dropping “ _when you gonna hurry up and fuck me_ ” during sex and then in casual conversation when that didn’t work. Getting Harry worked up in public has always been one of Louis’ favorite things so it just progressed from there, finding increasingly tactile ways to turn him on, ranging from drinking his water suggestively to sitting on Harry’s lap and wriggling around like he couldn’t get comfortable. 

He knew how Harry felt about his arse, and Louis wasn’t above using it to his advantage. 

And while it _did_ succeed in getting Harry hard, it never led to Harry fucking him. It mostly just led to rushed handjobs in the bathroom and getting in trouble with management. 

The thing that made Harry crack eventually was an honest-to-God accident, though to this day Harry insists Louis did it on purpose. Louis hadn’t known, up until then, just how much of a jealous shit Harry really is. They’d gone out to a club, and Louis had drug Zayn off to the dance floor. Harry had elected to sit at the table and watch Niall outdrink their friends. 

So Louis and Zayn had been dancing, girls around them, but mostly with each other. Louis had slung his arms around Zayn’s neck, and Zayn had gripped his waist in response. They were laughing, Louis doesn’t know what about - doesn’t think he knew even at the time - but suddenly Zayn was dropping his hands like he’d been burned, his expression gone serious. Louis, confused, had looked around, thinking maybe someone was taking a picture, only to see Harry _stalking_ towards them. 

Harry had wrapped his warm hand around Louis’ wrist and tugged him towards the exit with a, “C’mon. _Please_ , I need to go home.” 

Louis had opened his mouth to argue, but something about the look on Harry’s face had him nodding instead and following Harry outside. Harry didn’t say anything on the way home, but he hadn’t let go of Louis’ hand either, holding on to it tightly.

As soon as they’d closed the door to the apartment, Louis had said: “What’s going on?” The thought that Harry was jealous hadn’t even occurred to him; if anything, Harry looked _nervous_. 

In response, Harry had turned and caged Louis in against the wall. One hand cradled Louis’ head and the other he slipped under Louis’ shirt, a hot brand on his waist.

“You had your hands all over him.” 

Louis wanted to laugh, _that’s what this is about?_ but he could barely breathe with the way Harry was running his nose along his jawline. “It’s just Zayn,” Louis managed. 

Harry bit a kiss into Louis’ neck, too high to hide. “Don’t wanna share you.” 

And that... that shouldn’t have turned Louis on. They weren’t _dating_ , but fuck if Louis wasn’t rock hard in his pants. 

“Jealous?” Louis asked anyways, just to be a shit. 

Harry pressed his body into Louis’, and Louis could feel how hard he was. “Gonna fuck you,” Harry said, and Louis’ knees went weak. “I’m the only one who gets to fuck you, yeah?” 

Breathless, Louis had nodded. “Yeah.” 

Louis had been right. Harry had _nothing_ to worry about. He’d made Louis come before he’d even pushed _inside_ and then again no more than ten minutes later. 

“It’s been awhile,” Louis tells him now. 

Harry tops like he does everything: slowly, thoroughly, drawn out. Always so generous and giving and _frustrating_. 

“Tell me,” he says, when he’s made Louis a panting mess with just his fingers. It’s been too long since he’s even done this, and now Harry’s dragging it out so much Louis' breath feels caught in his throat. “How long’s it been since someone fucked you?” 

“You already know,” Louis tells him, eyes closed. He can’t look at Harry’s face right now, and he’s a little worried he might actually start _begging_ if Harry keeps fucking teasing him like this. “You were there.” 

Harry stops, and Louis frowns. “You haven't… for anyone else since then? Lou, that was over a _year ago_.”

 _Yes, I know,_ Louis wants to say. _I was there._

He could point out that Harry was the one to say _i’m the only one who gets to fuck you_ all those years ago, but he knows Harry didn’t expect Louis to take that to heart. He’d actually _apologized_ for getting so possessive; they’d both blamed it on Harry being a hormonal teenager, and Louis never mentioned how much it had turned him on. They never talked about it again. Harry probably didn’t even remember saying it. 

Instead of answering, he shrugs. He could ask Harry the same thing, how often he lets other men fuck him, how often he fucks other men, but Louis doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want those images in his head right now when Harry’s supposed to be working magic with those stupidly long fingers of his. 

“I’m really regretting this now,” Harry says.

Louis’ eyes _do_ snap open at that. “Wow. Can I have ‘things not to tell people during sex’ for $600, Alex?” 

Harry chokes out a surprised laugh and shoves at Louis’ bent knee. “I meant used lube, you wanker.” He wiggles his fingers, as if Louis’s forgotten where they’ve been. “I really want to eat you out.” 

“Fuck.” Louis had to get a hand on himself at the thought alone. “Later.” 

Harry grins. “You’re greedy tonight.” 

“Just hurry up and fuck me.” 

“Yes, daddy, I will.” 

It’s more teasing than anything, but Louis still feels a white hot thrill shoot up his spine. 

“You are a _nuisance_.” 

“You need to come up with new insults,” Harry informs him, rolling the condom on. “You’re getting predictable.” 

“Predict me kicking you in the balls if you don’t hurry up and _fuck me_.” 

“God, you’re such a bossy bottom.” 

“You like it.” 

Harry shrugs, doesn’t deny it. “I’m here, aren’t I?” 

He slides in all the way in one go, cutting off whatever response Louis was attempting to formulate. Louis feels a little like the breath has been knocked out of him. “ _Fuck_ , Harry, I told you it had been awhile.” 

Harry grins, unrepentant. “You don’t have anything going on tomorrow,” he points out. 

“So?” he asks, trying and failing to keep his voice normal. 

Sliding almost all the way out again before slamming back home pulls a groan out of Louis. He finds himself unable to do anything but throw his head back and try not to come too soon. 

He can feel Harry’s grin against his skin where he’s been pressing kisses into Louis’ neck. “Gonna make sure you can’t walk tomorrow.” 

Louis groans. God, Harry’s going to be the death of him. 

✰✰✰

Louis is half-buried underneath the pillows afterwards, curled up with Harry running a hand absentmindedly up and down his spine. He thinks he might be able to feel his legs finally, and taking a shower seems like a good idea; the distance to the bathroom is an obstacle he’s not ready to face yet, though. 

“I think you killed me,” he tells Harry.

Harry just laughs quietly in amusement or pride - both probably, knowing Harry - so Louis rolls over, pushing the pillows off of himself, to see what’s got Harry’s attention. He’s fairly certain he should be the most interesting thing in the room right now. Harry’s got his notebook propped up on his knees, which means he’s probably writing. Louis doesn’t want to disturb him, but he also kind of wants Harry’s focus on _him_. 

“I bought you something,” he says, because the only other option is to crawl into Harry’s lap; he thinks he has more dignity than that. 

Harry doesn’t look up. “Is it food? Because I want pancakes.” 

“Call room service, then. The phone is literally right next to you.” 

“I want good pancakes,” he argues, and then: “It’s not food, then?” 

Louis rolls his eyes. _One track mind_. “No, better.” 

“Better than pancakes?” 

Pushing himself out of the bed (and very nearly falling on his face in the process) Louis walks across the room to where he stowed his bag. He’s been carrying around that damn necklace for a week now, and he needs to just _give_ it to Harry before he loses his nerve. He’s been second guessing himself ever since he hid it in his duffel. He finds it tucked between two shirts. 

When he turns back to the bed, Harry has finally put aside his notebook, and is watching on with mild curiosity. Louis does actually settle himself on Harry’s lap this time, knees on either side of Harry’s hips. Harry’s hands come up to rest on Louis’ waist automatically. 

“Since you’re my kept man and all,” he says, but the joke falls flat even to his own ears. 

Harry is staring at the box. “That’s a little big to be a ring.” 

It doesn’t surprise Louis that Harry’s initial thought was that he had bought him another ring. Louis just hands the box over. 

Harry takes it from him without a word. Louis watches him open it, feeling the silence like a band around his chest.

The seconds tick into minutes, and Harry doesn’t react for so long, Louis grows even _more_ nervous. 

“You don’t like it,” he says, but even saying it out loud doesn’t sound right. There’s _no way_ Harry doesn’t like it. He _knows_ Harry. The pearls _scream_ Harry. The fake ones had practically jumped off the shelf at him. Louis almost bought _all_ of them, fake and real alike. Harry should _always_ be in pearls. He doesn’t know why it took him so long to figure it out, but he’s glad it was him and not some other boy. Where would Louis be then? He can’t have Harry falling in love with some boy. There’s sex and then there’s _sex with Harry,_ and Louis would be quite content not having to worry about going back to sex with people who aren’t Harry. 

Harry looks up finally, and his eyes are watery. Which means this is going to end very well or very badly. 

“ _Lou_.” It’s just his name, half of his name really, but Louis cheers internally. _Success_. It’s going to end very well.

Louis takes the box back from a reluctant Harry and lifts out the necklace. “Want to see it on you, sweetheart,” he says and unclasps it. Harry leans forward, eager now, and Louis does it up behind his neck carefully, without really being able to see what he’s doing. 

The pearls nestle against his collarbone, and Harry touches them gently. “Up, up,” Harry says, pushing insistently at Louis, even though they both know he could easily up and move Louis himself if he wanted to. Louis’s not much for being manhandled outside of sex, though, and he slides off of Harry’s lap. “Want to see them for myself,” he explains. 

Louis falls onto his back and thinks about texting Lottie. He’s got no idea where his phone is, and he’s rifling through the blankets when Harry comes back. 

“Okay,” he says, standing at the end of the bed. Louis sits up. Harry’s taken his other necklace off, leaving him in just the pearls and, hmm… there’s something satisfying about that to Louis. “Turn back over.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re not actually my kept man, Harold. And I didn’t buy the necklace for you so I’d get sex out of it. I bought it for you, because I knew you’d like it.” 

Harry isn’t swayed. “I have been thinking about your arse for a week now. Roll. Over.,” he says again, more defiantly. 

Louis rolls over. What’s he going to do? Say _no_? 

He rests his head on a pillow, arms crossed underneath it. “A week, huh?” He’s already getting hard again. 

“Gonna make you come just from my tongue,” is all Harry says, settling himself between Louis’ legs. 

He does indeed keep his promise, unsurprisingly. Louis can feel the pearls against the backs of his thighs and it might be that, in the end, that pushes him over the edge.

✰✰✰

Louis goes out the next night. He lies and tells himself it’s what he would’ve done anyways, but really it’s because everyone is in a hissy over Harry being spotted in the same fucking city as him. God forbid. This is why they couldn’t date, even if they wanted to. It’s not even a _you can’t be out of the closet_ thing, though there is definitely that, and they’re both already toeing the line on that front. He doesn’t think other closested celebrities get as much flak as he and Harry do. It borders on counterproductive, but Louis’s not going to tell them that. 

They actually started to suggest bringing in Eleanor again, but Louis shut that down immediately. No fucking way. Sure, he’d learned to get along with her, and he doesn’t actually much _mind_ her company anymore. Harry, on the other hand, has never been able to stand her. He denies it, but Louis knows he hates her. (Probably with a passion rivaling how much Louis hates Taylor, but that’s neither here nor there.) Louis is not going to willingly put him through that right now. Harry would act fine with it, because he’s _Harry_ , but they’d grow distant and start fighting more, and no. He’s not doing that. Especially now when Louis is consistently getting laid again. Things haven’t been this smooth sailing for them in awhile. 

So he comprises. He dresses up in his tightest pants instead of joggers, throws on a loose t-shirt, and heads out to a local dig. He figures he can flirt around, dance, get a little drunk. All harmless, but stuff he wouldn’t be doing if he was actually dating Harry. He knows it won’t convince the hardcore shippers, but it’ll get management off his back, and that’s all he cares about. 

(God, what has his life become.) 

That all goes out the window almost thirty minutes into the night. He _is_ having a good time, dancing with a few nice girls; he even got a number. (He’s no Harry Styles, but he’s still got it.) But then the tv above the bar switches from a replay of a football match Louis’s already seen, to an interview. 

A fucking _Harry Styles_ interview. He’s everywhere these days. Which, good on him, but it’s interfering with Louis’ plans right now. 

Louis’s already seen the interview, but he doesn’t know if that’s because it’s already aired or if Harry had sent him an early recording — he does that sometimes when he’s particularly fond or nervous about it. Louis finds he keeps drifting back to it. Harry looks good: wearing a pale pink and glittery button-up, undone to his butterfly; shoulders looking broader than they really are; suspenders (fucking suspenders, honestly Harry can’t let anything go); looking all pretty and green eyed. He’s a little sweaty from performing. Louis thinks about texting him _I want to fuck you in that shirt_ but Harry probably wouldn’t even know what shirt he was talking about, and honestly, Louis wants to fuck him in most of the clothes he wears. 

Harry doesn’t need the ego boost, anyway. Eight years ago he was all about making Harry feel comfortable in his own skin, and would lavish him with compliments and praise. Now, Louis just likes to make sure he doesn’t get too big of a head. He takes his job very seriously. 

It’s not until someone bumps into him that Louis realizes he’s full on sat at the bar, eyes glued to the television. He doesn’t even remember coming over here, the fuck? 

The woman who bumped into him is a pretty thing. Messy brown hair, hazel eyes just on the right side of green. Cheeky grin. He’s got a type, sue him. She’s wearing a long black dress that’s slit up her thigh, a tangle of necklaces around her neck, and rings along her fingers. Her grin widens when she realizes he’s checking her out, as if that wasn’t clearly her intention. 

“You know, you won’t get your soulmate like this.” 

Prepared for an introduction as opposed to whatever _that_ was, he opens and promptly shuts his mouth, caught off guard. “What?” 

“You _know_ where to look,” she continues, sounding impatient, like Louis knows what she’s talking about and is just choosing to be difficult.

He blinks, feeling strangely unsettled. “I’m…. sorry?” He tries to chuckle, going for lighthearted, but his voice gets caught in his throat. 

She sighs and pats his cheek with a warm hand. 

Okay then. He’s used to people invading his personal space, but everything about this feels off. He hasn’t had that much to drink, has he? 

“Maybe I can help you.” She leans in and brushes a kiss across his jaw. That _would_ be the moment someone catches a picture, perfect timing like it’s been planned, but he doesn’t look to see if the flash of light is actually from a camera or if he’s imagining things. 

She saunters away from him, and Louis starts to follow after her, a dozen questions on his lips. _Soulmate? The fuck._ He feels oddly lightheaded all of a sudden. His brain doesn’t know where his head is in relation to the rest of his body. He thinks, _I'm going to puke_ , and the floor comes up to meet him. 

Except it doesn’t. Because he’s shuffling into the back of a cab and rattling off the name of his hotel. His fingers are tapping a beat against his knee, and he thinks — no, _sings_ , under his breath: _shit, maybe I miss you_. He doesn’t know how he got here or what time it is; between one blink of the eye and the next, he slips between his sheets in bed. 

He thinks he reaches for his phone. He needs to tell Harry. _It didn’t mean anything_. He doesn’t want Harry seeing a picture of some strange woman kissing him. Doesn’t want Harry running off to other boys, doesn’t want Harry falling in love with someone else. 

_Shit,_ he thinks, _maybe I miss you_.

He closes his eyes. 


	2. One.

Louis’ alarm wakes him up bright and early the next morning. He fumbles for it unsuccessfully before it shuts off. His ears are ringing and his head feels heavy. There’s a tightness in his stomach, not unlike the time Liam and he decided to see how many roller coasters they could go on — back to back — before one of them threw up. (He still maintains it was Liam who lost the battle with his stomach first, though they were both headed towards the nearest trash can at the same time.) 

There’s a moment of stillness, his eyes still shut, before he registers background noise. Feet against tiled floor. Conversation too quick and mixed for him to pick up any one word. It sounds like it’s coming from the hallway, maybe a group of people looking for their hotel room. A minute later his alarm goes off again, the sound of feet and voices drowned out by a bell. 

He pauses. That’s not what his alarm sounds like. 

Reaching for his phone again, he opens his eyes. 

The sight before him doesn’t make any sense, and he closes his eyes again. He rubs the sleep from them, trying to remember what he drank last night, if there’s a chance of someone slipping something into his glass. 

When he opens his eyes again, he’s still hallucinating. He’s sitting at a teacher’s desk, a crick in his neck from where he had been leaning back against the chair. Twenty-four empty desks are spaced out in four rows, six deep. The teacher’s desk is mostly bare, no name plaque to tell him whose it is, no lesson plan or homework turned in at the last minute. Not even a shiny red apple to complete the dream. 

Because if he’s not hallucinating, he reasons, he must be dreaming. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s dreamt he was a teacher. That he never let his mom convince him to try out for X-Factor, or that he never made it through. He’d gone to school instead and followed through on his plans to teach English or Drama. 

Windows line the wall to his right, letting in bright early afternoon, late morning sunlight. Part of the view is of a parking lot, mostly full. In the distance, he can see another building. Standing up to get a closer look, he takes in the playground — kids swinging and going down slides — and two figures walking from the building across the parking lot. One of them turns their head to look behind, at the kids, and waves. They two men look familiar, almost like — 

He shakes his head. Impossible. He’s dreaming. 

The door opens behind him, and he whirls around. Forgetting he’s dreaming momentarily, he tries to come up with an excuse for why he’s standing in an empty classroom he clearly doesn’t belong in. The person who walks in, though, has his mouth going dry on sight. 

Liam’s arms are very nearly full of take out bags, but he nudges the door shut behind him with his hip. 

“What’s wrong, mate?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

_I have_ , he thinks and tries not to gape. This is not his Liam. This Liam is from years ago — dressed in nice tan chinos and a button up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, not a tattoo in sight — but his hair looks the same, maybe a little longer than he’s taken to keeping it. His eyes are a little brighter, a little less tired. _He must have made up with Zayn_ , Louis thinks automatically. 

_Dreaming_ , he reminds himself, he’s dreaming. It makes sense that dream Liam would be a mix of all the different Liam’s through the years. He makes his way back to his seat. 

Liam sets the brown paper bags on the desk and starts pulling takeout containers from them. He sets a few in front of Louis and next to Louis, one in front of himself, and then spreads the rest out across the desk. When he’s done, he meets Louis’ gaze. 

“Seriously, mate. What’s going on with you? Are you just going to sit there?” 

Louis blinks, confused. He watches Liam pull chairs up to the desk and it isn’t until he’s already done that Louis realizes he was probably meant to get up and help. Liam doesn’t look too put out, just takes the seat across from Louis, slightly lower to the ground, but still able to brace his elbows on the table and start opening his food. 

When Louis continues to sit and watch him wordlessly, Liam says. “Are you getting sick again? Or is the cold feet finally settling in?” 

Automatically, Louis looks out the window. It doesn’t _look_ cold; the kids on the playground are wearing jackets, but not coats. It’s not snowing. The sun is shining. He has the useless instinct to look down at his feet, even though he _knows_ that’s not what Liam is asking about. 

“Cold feet?” he asks, finding his voice. 

“It’s okay to be nervous. That’s normal.” 

Louis takes the utensils Liam is holding out for him and looks down at his food. 

“I know,” he says, his voice small. He feels eighteen years old again, except instead of telling the boys _I believe in you. We’ve got this. We’re gonna smash it. You sound great._ It’s Liam reassuring him, and he doesn’t even know why. 

“It’s a big step,” Liam continues, waving his fork around. “You’re getting _married_. It’s normal to feel—”

Louis looks down at his hand, tuning out the rest of Liam’s words. _Married_ , he thinks. He’s having a dream where he’s getting married? There’s no ring on his finger, but there’s a tattoo where, in the waking world, a 2 is. 

**H**

It’s about the same size as the 2 had been, not quite subtle and very permanent. 

Something has him flipping his hand over. There, inscribed in familiar handwriting on the soft inside of his wrist are the words **so happily**. 

The door opens again and, speak of the devil, Harry walks in. He’s not alone, but Louis can’t look away from the familiar boy long enough to see who has walked in with him. 

He looks the same, but different. His hair looks like it did the last time Louis saw him, pushed away from his face and curling slightly at the ends. His eyes are still the brightest thing in any room, twinkling with laughter. His dimples are craters in his cheeks. He’s dressed casually in brown pants and a vintage looking shirt printed with a smiley face in the center. The smile is overlapped by a small handprint made of dried, red paint right over his stomach. 

When he meets Louis’ gaze, he smiles _so happily_ Louis feels his breath catch in his throat. 

That’s when the panic starts to set in. It’s not a quick, overwhelming panic. It’s slow, starting as unease in his stomach and a heaviness in his chest. He’s dreamt about Harry before, he’s dreamt about all the boys — but not like this, never like this. He’s never dreamt anything so vivid. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Harry says. “Delilah got a little fresh.” He gestures down, indicating the red handprint. Once he’s closed the space between them, he leans down to press his lips to Louis’ like that’s something they do all the time and _in front of other people_. 

Louis, despite himself, melts a little, and the panic eases fractionally. 

“Hi, sunshine,” Harry murmurs when he pulls back. His thumb runs a hot line across Louis’ cheekbone. 

“Hi,” Louis breathes. 

Harry’s smile widens, and he moves to take the seat next to Louis. 

Niall, looking the same as always sans the earring, is pulling out the chair at the end of the desk. There’s really not enough room for the four of them and their food, let alone the fifth person who’s taking the seat next to Liam. 

_Zayn_.

His hair is an artful mess, and his eyes look sad, but he’s smiling softly at something Liam’s saying to him. Louis doesn’t miss the casual touches they exchange: a hand on Liam’s back as Zayn pulls out the chair to sit down; Liam’s fingers touching Zayn’s wrist when he hands him his utensils; the arm Liam throws over Zayn’s shoulder when he whispers in Zayn’s ear and makes him laugh. 

His presence, more than anything, feels like a punch to the gut. Louis has dreamt about Zayn before, probably more than the other boys _combined_. Sometimes he revisits their last interaction, sometimes he gets a redo, sometimes he dreams about running into him at an event, on the street, or calling him up and — 

He has to look away before he throws up all over everyone’s food. 

The panic climbs steadily, even as he reminds himself he’s just dreaming. It’s an odd dream, even without the other boys here; nothing is really happening — they’re just sitting around eating lunch. 

Harry’s running his thumb over the back of Louis’ hand. It helps settle some of the thoughts running rampant inside him. Louis looks down at the point of contact. Harry’s wearing a ring, which isn't something out of the ordinary, except he’s only wearing one on his left hand, and the ring in question is on his ring finger. 

Just like Louis’ H tattoo. 

It’s a diamond ring. It’s not as ostentatious as some of his other rings, but still big and expensive looking. Dainty still, very _Harry_. 

An engagement ring. 

He lifts up Harry’s hand, turning it over to study his wrist like he had his own. There, in his own handwriting, is a tattoo. 

**Always in my heart**

Liam’s words hit him again. Cold feet. Getting married. The tattoos. The ring. The way Harry had kissed him and the smile he hasn’t dropped once since setting foot in the room, a little amused now as Louis studies his wrist. It should’ve clicked sooner, but it makes no sense. 

They’re getting married. He’s dreaming he’s marrying _Harry_. Marry Harry. God. 

Louis’ heart does a summersault in his chest, and he tries to subtly place his fingers on the pulse point on his wrist without alerting Harry. 

Harry, of course, notices everything. He tracks Louis’ movement with his eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice quiet: meant for his ears alone. “You haven’t touched your curry. Is that not what you wanted? I told Liam—” 

Louis shakes his head. He’s already checked his food; it’s exactly what he would’ve ordered for himself. 

“I’m just feeling a bit…” He gesticulates vaguely, wondering how to say _I thought I was dreaming, but this doesn’t feel like a dream, and also why are we getting married?_ Without actually saying any of those things. 

Harry drops his hand and places in on the back of Louis’ neck instead. It’s warm, and he applies just the slightest hint of pressure. Louis leans forward, and Harry presses his lips to Louis’ forehead. Louis doesn’t mean to, but he closes his eyes, relaxing into it. 

“I don’t think you have a fever,” Harry says. He kisses his forehead again, properly this time, and Louis sighs in contentment. He can feel Harry’s answering smile against his skin. “Are you nervous?” 

_Yes_ , he thinks, but shrugs. _It’s just a dream_ , he reminds himself. He’s going to wake up any minute now. He’ll call Harry, and they’ll have a good laugh at his expense. 

_Can you believe we were getting married?_

His stomach clenches, and Harry must read something on his face, because he says, “Nervous about the wedding in general or about—” He clears his throat, looking suddenly anxious himself. “You’re not having second thoughts?” 

Louis doesn’t know how to answer that question. He tries to imagine marrying Harry for real. It’s a strange thought to have, because it’s _Harry_. He pictures waking up next to him every day, not having to think about Harry being off with different boys in different countries, not having to wonder if he’s been sleeping with anyone else. 

When he says, “I’m sure about you,” it feels like the truth. 

Harry smiles against his forehead again, and Louis pulls back so he can see that smile for himself. 

“Are _you_ nervous?” he asks when their eyes meet. 

Harry shakes his head confidently, the smile never slipping from his face. His voice is louder when he says, “Knew I wanted to marry you the second I laid eyes on you.”

Louis’ heart thumps in his chest. He can’t believe he had the imagination to think this up. 

Zayn groans. and Louis very nearly jumps, having forgotten they weren’t alone. 

“Don’t tell the story,” Zayn says. “We don’t need to hear it. It was awkward enough witnessing it with my own eyes.” 

Harry just keeps smiling, never taking his eyes off of Louis.

It’s that smile that prompts Louis to say, “I want you to tell it.” 

Zayn groans again. “Here we go.” 

“I think it’s cute,” Liam says with a shrug. 

“It’s ridiculous, is what it is,” Niall quips. 

“You weren’t there,” Zayn tells Liam, “And you didn’t know Harry like I did. You weren’t worried they’d start having sex on one of the tables, right in front of my lunch.”

Harry laughs, finally taking his eyes off of Louis. His cheeks are tinted the slightest pink. 

“Tell me,” Louis says, genuinely curious now. 

Harry hums. “Well, let’s see. Zayn had been telling me about this cute boy he kept seeing around the secondary school, so we finally made plans to come over here and have lunch instead of with the other primary school teachers.”

 _Primary school_ , Louis thinks, _of course he’d dream up Harry as a primary school teacher_. He looks out the window. The playground across the way is empty now. 

“Little did we know, Liam had been talking to you about the ruggedly handsome art teacher over at the primary school, so you two had decided to go over _there_ and have lunch.” 

“I did not say ruggedly handsome,” Liam interjects. “I would just like to make note of that.” 

“Lou’s words, not mine,” Harry defends. 

Louis shrugs, unashamed. Sounds like him. “He is ruggedly handsome. I wasn’t wrong.” 

“Anyways,” Harry continues, like he hadn’t been interrupted. “You forgot the whole plan. Zayn and I were sitting in the break room, and you walked in alone. You were wearing those stupidly tight red jeans that made your arse look good enough to eat.” 

Niall snorts, amused. Zayn groans again. Liam says “We’re _eating_ here,” and Louis almost lets out a horrified gasp. He can’t believe he used to wear those. He has to look down and make sure he’s not wearing something equally as disastrous. He’s got fitted chinos on and a loose sweater. He looks proper respectable. 

“And you said, ‘Well, fuck me’ and I said, “Buy me dinner first.’ And you looked me up and down and said, ‘Are you free Saturday?’” Harry leans back in his seat, clearly pleased with himself. “Proper meetcut, I’d say.”

Louis snorts. Of fucking course. It does sound like something his subconscious would come up with, marriage and dating aside. 

“Granted, by that point, we were kind of just staring at each other. I don’t think I had even bothered to answer you. I don’t know what you were thinking, but Zayn’s not far off with the sex on the table, for me at least,” he teases. 

That surprises a laugh out of Louis, though it does seem pretty on par for them. They’ve always had a hard time keeping their hands off each other. “Probably something about your legs,” Louis says, wiggling his eyebrows. Sinful things they are, Harry’s legs. They’ve gotten Louis into a lot of trouble. 

Harry nods in solemn agreement. “Probably.” 

Louis sighs. “Probably something about your eyes,” he answers more truthfully. “Or your ridiculous smile.” Harry smiles said ridiculous smile, dimples and all, and Louis’ chest hurts. He doesn’t know why he’s reacting this way; his body seems programmed to lose its mind everytime Harry so much as looks in his direction. “Yeah,” he says, unintentionally soft, “that’s the one.” He thumbs at Harry’s left cheek, and Harry nuzzles at his hand. A fucking cat, honestly. 

They stare at each other for long enough that Liam finally says, “Eat your food,” and Louis has to tear his eyes away from Harry and do just that.

✰✰✰

When Harry leaves after lunch, it’s with another kiss to Louis’ lips and a slow drawl of, “I’ll see you at three, honey.” 

Louis watches him go, and when he catches himself _watching him go_ and _pining after him_ , he contemplates putting his head through the window. 

✰✰✰

When he’s got the room to himself again, he expects to wake up. There’s a voice in the back of his head that whispers _this isn’t a dream_ , but he elects to ignore it. He distracts himself by looking through the drawers on the desk. In the biggest one, he finds a lesson plan and three picture frames. 

The first picture is of him and his sisters and has his heart aching familiarly at the sight. The second picture is of him and the boys. They’re at some pub, he guesses, in a corner booth, half-full drinks on the table. Liam’s got his arm thrown over Zayn’s shoulder, and they’re both smiling at the camera. Niall is on Liam’s other side, holding his pint up to the camera. He looks like he’s in the middle of saying something — probably _cheers_ if Louis had to guess. Harry and Louis are on the other side, with Louis squished between Zayn and Harry. Harry’s got his arm along the back of the seat, fingers brushing Louis’ shoulder, and he’s smiling cheekily at the camera. Louis is the only one not looking at the camera — instead, he’s staring at Harry. Louis can see just enough of his own expression to tell he’s smiling softly, looking about twelve different shades of fond. It’s not a look he’s _unfamiliar_ with, per say, but he flips the picture frame over so he doesn’t have to look at it. 

The third picture might be the hardest to look at. It’s just Harry and Louis. They’ve both got coats on, but he can see, through their unzipped jackets, that they’re all dressed up. Louis is wearing all black, and Harry is wearing a gold button-up, the top few buttons undone. Louis has his arm around Harry’s waist, and though they’re smiling, they look like they’ve been crying. Probably on account of the hand that Harry’s holding up — showing off his engagement ring. Louis doesn’t have to guess, he _knows_ ; he can remember taking Harry out to a fancy restaurant. Harry had been suspicious, expecting Louis to propose, then surprised when Louis hadn’t. Instead, Louis had gotten down on one knee an hour later, while they were walking through the park. 

He’s hit with a wave of nausea at the — the memory? He pushes away from the desk, drops his head between his knees, and sucks in a breath. He squeezes his eyes shut, remembers stopping by Liam and Zayn’s apartment afterwards. Remembers Liam already having the camera ready, because Louis had told him he was going to propose. 

Liam’s response had been, “It’s about damn time.” 

He shoves the two last picture frames back in the drawer. _You’re just dreaming_ , he tells himself. _It’s all just a dream_. 

But it feels so real. 

_The bell is going to ring any minute; you have to pull yourself together_. He doesn’t know how he knows, but something is telling him he doesn’t have much time left. He’s going to have to worry about this later. 

He leaves the first picture out, the one of his sisters, and studies the day’s lesson plan. 

✰✰✰

Louis goes through the motions of the day, losing himself in talk of poetry — the topic his English classes are currently studying. He’s quite passionate about words in real life, so he thinks that helps, but he also catches himself calling students by their name more than once. 

_It’s just a dream_ , he reminds himself and moves on. 

Towards the end of his last class of the day, some of his students start getting distracted. That’s pretty normal — the bell is about to ring, they’re getting antsy — what’s not normal is the snickering. Confused, he watches one of the student’s gaze flicker towards the door before settling on Louis again. Louis turns and sees Harry leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, watching Louis with a fond smile on his face. 

_Of course_ , he thinks, shaking his head and narrowing his eyes at Harry. Harry holds his hands up, palm out, and Louis rolls his eyes, gesturing for him to come into the room. 

Harry grins, smug, as he slides into Louis’ chair. Louis doesn’t dare hope he’s going to behave, but he busies himself going over the class’s homework assignment. Sure enough, when he turns back around, Harry is spinning in the chair. Not enough to be annoying, just enough to be distractingly cute. 

After the bell rings and he’s dismissed the class, one of the students approaches his desk — or rather, Harry. 

“Are you going to bring in pictures from the wedding next week, Mr. Styles?” 

Harry grins up at her, hands folded on the desk in front of him. “Of course, Annabel.” 

Of fucking course. Harry would know the names of his students. 

“I’m really happy for you both. Congratulations.” 

Harry thanks her, and Louis watches her go, a little dumbfounded. 

“What was that about?” he asks. 

“She was the one who told off the principal when he asked us not to ‘flaunt our relationship in front of the students,’” Harry confesses. He adds, even softer, “She came out to her parents last week.” 

Oh, so even in his dreams there’s someone trying to keep Harry and him apart. Figures. 

“Are her parents—” 

Harry nods quickly. “Yeah, yeah. They’re really supportive.”

Louis lets out a breath, relieved. “Are you ready to go?” Louis asks him, getting his stuff together. 

Harry stands. “Yep. I still insist I'm a terrible actor, but I’ll sacrifice my pride for your sake.” 

Louis doesn’t understand anything he just said — also, Louis has seen Dunkirk about a dozen times; Harry can act when he wants to.

Instead of leading him to the carpark, as Louis had suspected, Harry leads him to the theater. There’s a couple groups of kids, spaced out around the room, and they call out greetings as Harry and him walk in. 

Like he’s one of the students, Harry makes himself comfortable with one of the groups, sitting cross legged. 

“Hey, coach,” one of the kids says to Harry. 

Another teacher comes up beside Louis, talking about the rehearsal plans, but Louis is too distracted, picking up one of the abandoned scripts. 

He shakes his head when he sees the title. Of _course_ , they’re putting on Grease. 

✰✰✰

Harry drives them home afterwards, thank God; Louis doesn’t know if he trusts his dream memory to know how to get them there. They live in a brownstone that’s divided into different apartments, there’s being on the top floor. 

Louis automatically goes to kick off his shoes once he’s inside. There’s a pile of shoes next to the door in a tray. Some of them look half heartedly organized — Harry’s, he notes — while Louis’ are dropped haphazardly around them. There’s also an end table, with a little dish for their keys and a place to put their mail. Next to it is a coat rack, which Louis throws his coat at and misses. It lands on the floor on top of another one of his jackets. 

Wow, is he predictable. 

Harry has already disappeared further into the apartment, so Louis takes his time looking around. The front door opened up into a living room. There’s a big, plush orange couch which Louis thinks is tacky, but Harry probably loves to death. There’s blankets everywhere, a basket half full while the rest are strewn across the couch. There are half-finished art projects on part of the coffee table. On the other end is a stack of what looks like graded papers, a couple of red pens strewn about. One wall is taken up by a large stereo system and what would be an impressive collection of cd’s and records if Louis hadn’t just fallen asleep in a world where he and Harry individually own at least twice as many. 

Unsurprisingly, Harry must’ve already turned the system on; something quiet plays in the background and it only takes Louis half a second to place the artist. Oasis, of course. 

Louis moves through the living room down a short hallway. One door is opened to a bathroom. It’s not messy, but lived in. There’s two towels hanging up, two toothbrushes next to the sink, lemon scented soap and a dish that says thingamabobs. Louis already knows it’s for all of Harry’s rings. Louis’s got a similar one at his own house for that exact purpose. His, though, has a sunflower on it. 

He keeps going, knowing what he’s searching for without putting it into words. The last door pushes open to reveal the bedroom. The bed isn’t made, but he didn’t expect it to be. The sheets are thrown back, and there’s an extra blanket on one side. He instinctively moves to that side of the bed. There’s a stack of books on the end table: poetry mostly, some familiar short story collections. His glasses sit on top of all of them. There’s a notebook he flips through; it’s full of writing — _his_ writing; he can recognize the penmanship. Words, lyrics, poetry. He feels weirdly intrusive, like he’s reading someone else’s diary, so he puts it back down.

Everything feels so real and familiar. 

He doesn’t quite feel like he’s dreaming anymore, but no other explanation makes sense. He puts a hand to his chest, waiting for the panic to set in, but it doesn’t this time. He feels oddly calm. 

He glances towards Harry’s side of the room, much more organized than Louis’ own. There’s a couple books — obscure literature predictably — and a small notebook. He still feels like he’s snooping in on someone else’s life, so he turns around to head back down the hallway. 

Harry is leaning against the door frame, a soft smile on his lips. Louis doesn’t think he’s seen this Harry not smiling, now that he thinks about it. 

“I was thinking about making pasta for dinner. Sound good?” 

Louis can only nod his agreement, unable to find words past the hollow feeling in his chest. 

✰✰✰

They go about their evening. It’s pretty uneventful if Louis is being honest, but that’s what makes it so fascinating. Louis hops on the counter while Harry cooks. He remains largely unhelpful, being so persistently attention seeking until, finally, Harry glares at him. 

“Lou,” he says, “make yourself useful and get out the plates. Before I have to put you in timeout like one of my students.” 

“Kinky.” 

He thinks about listening, honest. He imagines hopping down and getting out the plates like Harry has requested. They’d eat pasta at the table and play footsie with each other. Then they would do the dishes together; Louis would splash him, and Harry would kiss him, pinning him against the countertop. Afterwards they’d go in the living room and curl up on the couch. Louis would write and grade papers; Harry would read and change the music twelve times. It feels true. It feels like _them_. This dream version of them. 

But so does this: Louis steals a noodle from the pasta, obnoxious in his slurping and then says, “Make me.” 

Harry very carefully does not react. He turns off the burners, wipes his hands on the dishrag, and moves to stand in front of Louis. Louis opens his legs for Harry to move between them automatically, wrapping them around Harry’s waist to pull him closer. Harry studies him silently for a long moment, eyes dark. 

Then he pulls Louis off the counter, into his arms, Louis’ legs tight around him, and carries him to their bed.

 _This_ is what Louis wanted. It feels more familiar, more _them_ , the real them not the dream them. It settles the burn in his chest. Harry strips Louis of his shirt, kisses his way down his chest, bites at his nipples. And then he’s kissing him, and kissing him, and _kissing him_. 

_That_ is new. 

“Off, off, off,” Louis says, tugging at Harry’s shirt. Harry responds by pinning Louis’ hands above his head. He holds them there with one hand as he goes back to sucking love bites into Louis’ skin. 

“Don’t think you’re in a position to ask for things,” Harry tells him.

Louis wiggles underneath him, can't help it. He’s used to being the bossy one in bed more often than not, getting Harry where he wants him, holding him down, making him beg. But he loves when Harry gets like this, too, taking advantage of the fact that he’s bigger than Louis. 

Sometimes he just needs someone else to take control for once, and Harry’s the only one Louis has ever trusted to do that. 

He knows this isn’t really _his_ Harry, but he’s dreaming, it doesn’t matter; he wants so bad he _aches_. His brain is screaming at him, panicked in its confusion, not knowing where he’s at, what’s going on, how to wake himself up or get back to _his_ Harry. But Harry’s hands on his body, holding him down, opening him up, shut the voice up, make it impossible to think about anything else. 

“Harry, Harry, Harry.” It’s all he can say, all he can think, all he can feel. 

_Harry_. 

✰✰✰

They settle into a routine — or well, Louis settles into what is probably their already established routine. 

His alarm clock wakes him up in the morning to an empty bed. He meets Harry downstairs; Harry is usually just finishing up cooking breakfast. Sometimes, if Harry hasn’t already, they shower together. Harry says things like, “You’re going to make us late,” but he never actually says, “No, Louis, please don’t get down on your knees for me,” so Louis does. It keeps him going, the familiarity of sex between them. 

Harry drives them to work and they kiss in the parking lot, Louis pressing Harry up against the driver's door, away from prying eyes. He should really stop kissing Harry, shouldn’t get used to it, but it’s quickly becoming an addiction. He keeps forgetting, that this isn’t real, that it’s just an intense dream, like maybe he’s really in a coma or something. He finds himself slipping into his life here, like putting on a pair of pants you forgot you own, but still fit just right. 

Eventually they have to say goodbye. Harry says, “Lou, baby, you’re _actually_ going to make us late now,” and Louis has to watch him walk away.

Louis teaches class. He has lunch with the lads. He teaches more classes. He helps out with the drama club and watches Harry make a spectacle of himself playing the Coach. Then Harry drives them home. They eat dinner. Sometimes they curl up on the couch like Louis had imagined that first night. They watch dumb sitcoms, or Harry reads while Louis grades papers. More often than not, Louis pushes Harry into the cushions and kisses him until they’re both panting. 

“What has gotten into you lately?” Harry asks one evening, leg hooked around Louis’ waist. They’ve been slowly grinding against each other for the past ten minutes. 

“Can’t keep my hands off of you,” Louis answers. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“Fuck, no, but you know we’re going to have a whole week to ourselves, just us, honeymooning on the beach. All the sex we could ever want.” 

The word honeymoon sends a spike of panic through him that he tries to stifle down. He distracts himself by kissing Harry until he’s begging for Louis to touch him. 

Apparently this Harry _also_ likes calling Louis daddy. Interesting.

On Thursday, Louis’s walking into his classroom during a free period when he sees the lady from the bar. He thinks he’s imagining her at first, but she waves at him from where she’s leaning against his desk.

“Hi, fancy meeting you here,” she quips. Her curly hair is piled on top of her head in a bun, and she’s left her fingers bare of the rings she’d been wearing. 

“It’s you,” he says, dumbly. 

“I told you I’d help you find your soulmate,” she reminds. 

He shakes his head. “I’m dreaming.” 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” When he doesn’t say anything, she sighs. “I’m your fairy godmother.” 

“Like in a Disney movie?” 

“Sort of. Less bibbidi-bobbidi-boo pumpkin magic and more sending you to a different universe in the hopes you’ll get your head out of your ass.” 

Louis opens his mouth and then snaps it shut. _Different universe_. “That’s not — that’s not _real_.” 

“Feels pretty real,” she grins, “doesn’t it?” 

He shakes his head. “End it. Wake me up.” 

“Can’t do that, baby boy. It’ll keep happening until you figure it out.” 

“Figure _what_ out? Who my soulmate is?” He scoffs. “There’s no such thing.” 

“Eh.” She wiggles her fingers. “Not my favorite word to use, but essentially, yes. There is such a thing, and you’re messing with the balance of the universe.” 

He stares at her, expression hard. There’s _no way_...

She cracks, laughing. It’s too pleasant of a sound for the situation. “Okay, nothing as dramatic as that. I _am_ trying to help you, though. Like I said, you can think of me as your fairy godmother.” 

“I’d like to think of you as getting me _the fuck_ out of here. I didn’t _wish_ for this.” 

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not how it works. I’m just doing my job,” she wiggles her fingers at him again, “helping move things along.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” 

She shrugs. “You will soon enough. Another few universes, maybe, depends on how stubborn you are.” 

He thinks about telling her he’s the second most stubborn person _in_ the universe, but he’s still stuck on that word. “Universes,” he repeats. “Really?” 

She smiles, sadly this time. “Hopefully it won’t take you too many to catch on.” 

And then, between one blink and the next, she’s gone, like she’d never been there at all. 

✰✰✰

Harry meets him in the hallway after school has let out. He’s got a serious expression on his face, no smile in sight, and for a split second Louis worries he knows. He knows Louis isn’t _his_ Louis. That he’s from — a different _universe_ , apparently. He’s still not completely convinced he’s not dreaming. 

Harry kisses his cheek in greeting, though, and says, “Zayn and Liam might not come out with us tomorrow night.” 

Louis didn’t realize they had plans. “Okay.” 

Harry frowns and looks around — making sure they’re alone, Louis thinks. “Zayn’s not doing great,” he says, voice quiet. He’s quick to reassure, “Don’t worry. It’s not as bad as last time. He had to make an emergency session with his therapist, though, and Liam doesn’t think going out is a good idea right now. I thought maybe we could do something quiet, instead, just the five of us, but I wanted to run it past you before I suggested it.” 

Louis doesn’t really follow, but he catches onto the word _therapist_ and he wonders: What happened last time? He doesn’t think he wants to know if Harry’s expression is anything to go off of. It’s odd; sometimes he gets memories — proposing to Harry, his student’s names, his general day to day life — and sometimes he doesn’t. There’s no correlation. 

“Whatever is best for Zayn,” Louis says. “I wouldn’t want him to have to miss out on the celebrations.” 

Everything slows down when Harry smiles; it’s small but it’s there. He cups Louis’ face with his hands. His eyes are full of such tender emotion, Louis feels his breath catch in his throat. 

Harry says, “I love you so much, you know that, right?” 

Something hooks it’s claws in Louis’ chest and _yanks_. He’s pulled away from time, away from feeling, sliding into darkness. All he can think is: 

_Harry loves me_.


	3. Two.

He’s jolted awake by the feeling of ice rushing through his veins. 

_Harry loves me. Harry loves me. Harry loves me._

He cannot think of anything except those three words. Cannot make sense of the sights and sounds around him. The noise. The commotion. The lights. 

_Harry loves me._

And then: no. _That_ Harry loves _that_ Louis. He had been in some other time and some other place. _That_ other Harry loves a different Louis. That Harry does not love him. _His_ Harry does not love him. 

The concept of Harry loving him does not fit inside his head, and he bends over and dry heaves onto the... ice? 

His body convulses momentarily, though he doesn’t know if it’s in reaction to being yanked through, what, time and space? Or something else entirely. 

Everything feels too bright, and all he’s aware of is lying on his back on something hard and cold. Ice, right. 

It’s loud, there’s lots of yelling, but one voice in particular stands out. 

“Louis! _Louis_! Honey, look at me. Open your eyes, baby, _please_. Louis!” 

With herculean effort, Louis opens his eyes. He probably wouldn’t have bothered, but he’d like to see someone _not_ do whatever it takes to get that tone out of Harry’s voice. 

When their eyes meet, Harry visibly relaxes. His eyes close momentarily — which ok, hypocrite — but he’s got a hand on Louis’ chest, right over his heart, and they’re breathing to the same beat. 

“The fuck, Gordon?” Harry looks away, yelling at someone across the ice. “What’s your fucking problem?” 

“He’s a tiny thing,” comes an unfamiliar voice. Louis would take offense to that, if he had the energy. He’s _not_ tiny; why do people keep saying that? No one calls _Niall_ tiny, and he’s barely any taller than Louis. “I didn’t see him,” the voice continues. 

“Didn’t see him,” Harry repeats, scoff evident in his voice. “Fuck you. See if you see my fist in your face.” 

He starts to get up, but Louis holds tight to the front of his… jersey? He blinks. Ice rink. Jersey. Harry’s a hockey player? In _what_ universe? 

Oh, God. He’s in a different universe. A _new_ different universe. He’s going to actually throw up. 

Harry looks down at him, visibly reigning in his anger. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Harry that livid. “I’m not going anywhere, honey. How do you feel? You got hit pretty hard.” 

“Head,” Louis manages. “Hurts, m’head.” 

Harry’s face pales noticeably, and Louis wants to take back everything he just said, but his head really is killing him. Worse than he’d felt waking up the first time, in the _first_ universe. God. It feels like someone took a jackhammer to his skull. Everything is too bright and too loud and just _too_ much. He’s horrified to realize his eyes are blurring up with tears. 

“Loud,” he says, eyes drifting shut again, willing back the burning. “Bright.” 

Someone drops down next to them with a loud thud, skates against ice piercing to Louis’ ears. “Paramedics are on the way,” comes another familiar voice. 

He blinks open his eyes to see Liam leaning over him. 

There’s something very soothing about having Liam here. 

“Li,” he mumbles. 

“Hey, Lou, saw you got checked by Gordon. Guy’s a beast. I’m impressed you’re still alive.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Liam.” Harry pales. 

Someone else drops down next to them, and Louis would just like everyone to shut up and leave him alone please and thank you. Except Harry, he can stay. Louis still has a tight grip on Harry’s jersey, and Louis can’t think of a reason to let go even though it’s taking all his muscle strength to hang on. Harry’s hand is still resting over Louis’ chest. 

“Louis, can you look at me.” It’s Zayn this time, and Louis stares up at him in wonder as he goes through numerous tests before concluding he has a concussion. He looks like an angel, backlit by the stadium lights. “Paramedics will be here soon, like Li said. I wouldn’t try to move him yet.” 

Harry frowns down at Louis. His hand moving from Louis’ chest to brush Louis’ hair away from his face. His touch is gentle, and Louis has to fight the urge to close his eyes again. “Baby, what were you doing on the ice? You knew we were practicing.” 

Louis doesn’t know, and he says as such. 

Harry’s frown only deepens. “You don’t remember? Do you know why you came to the rink in the first place?” 

He waits, thinks. It’s not the same as when he was a teacher, when information would either be there or it wouldn’t. There’s a noticeable gaping black hole in his memory. He knows he doesn’t belong here; this isn’t his world, and it’s not his Harry, or his Liam, or his Zayn. But everything else feels too far away. 

“Head hurts,” he tells Harry again. 

Harry just nods. “I know, baby. I’ll take care of you, I promise.” 

It takes another ten minutes for the paramedics to show up. They load Louis onto a stretcher after fitting him with a neck brace, Zayn talking with them the entire time, making sure they know what happened. Then they roll him outside, and Zayn’s still there, with Harry on Louis’ other side. Louis doesn’t let go of Harry the entire time, until Louis’s being loaded into the ambulance. There’s a split moment of panic when he thinks he’ll be all alone in an unfamiliar world, but then Harry’s climbing in after him. Louis curls a hand around his once Harry is seated. 

His last view before they shut the doors is Zayn standing outside, arms crossed over his chest, looking worried. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Harry tells Louis all the way to the hospital. Louis doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just squeezes Harry’s hand and keeps quiet. 

✰✰✰

Retrograde amnesia is the general consensus. They ask him what year it is, and he gets that right. He recognizes Harry, of course, knows who the rest of the lads are (vaguely wonders when Niall is going to pop up, _if_ Niall is going to pop up), but he has no memory of his recent life. He remembers his family, growing up, going to school. Similar to his life back in his own universe, save for a few minute differences and one outstanding one: no x-factor, of course. 

Louis looks up at Harry, who has been by his side as often as possible and is holding his hand. Harry has changed out of his hockey uniform and is now in a pair of joggers and a hoodie. His hair is long, tied up in a bun at the base of his neck. 

“I think… I went to school for journalism?” 

Harry nods quickly, encouragingly. “Yeah, baby, that’s how we met. You had to do a sports paper. You wanted the football match, but the teacher gave you hockey to challenge you.” 

Louis wrinkles his nose. “How long ago was that?” 

“Almost seven years.” 

Ice settles in Louis’ veins, and he turns his attention back to the doctor. “I’ve lost seven years of memories?” 

“At least. It would appear so.” The doctor moves around to check the bump on Louis’ skull where it hit the ice. 

Louis looks back to Harry. “We’ve been together since then?” He winces when the doctor hits a particularly sore spot, and Harry’s face flushes with worry. 

Harry takes a minute to answer, watching the doctor and then Louis for any more signs of discomfort. 

“No. It took you about a year to realize you were in love with me,” he teases.

There’s that word again; Louis almost expects to be yanked out of the world again, but nothing happens. 

“And you?” Louis asks, voice quiet. 

Harry smiles, all dimples and brilliant eyes. “Oh, I knew right away.” 

Louis feels his face flush, and he has to look away. 

“Why a year then?” 

“We become best friends right away,” Harry says. Which, of course. That’s not surprising. Even in his own universe, Harry and Louis had become best friends from the word go. “And you knew I was completely smitten with you, but.” He shrugs. “You didn’t do anything about it. I wasn’t even sure you were interested half the time. Until…” 

“Until,” Louis presses. 

Harry meets his gaze. “It’s kind of weird telling you all of this, like you weren’t there.” 

_I wasn’t there_ , Louis thinks. He says, “You don’t have to tell me.” 

“No, it’s okay.” He takes the seat next to Louis. “I got checked pretty badly during one of the games, a suicide pass.” Louis has no idea what either of those things mean, but it doesn’t sound good. “It wasn’t pretty, and when I didn’t wake up right away… well, I’m told you kind of lost it.” 

A spike of fear shoots through Louis at the thought, and he tightens his grip on Harry’s hand. “Yeah, I imagine not.” 

“I woke up in the hospital. You were right there. You said—” He chuckles. “You said, ‘Oh, thank fuck,’ and then… and then you kissed me.” He smiles. “Of course, then you apologized; you thought you were taking advantage of me.” He shakes his head, unmistakably fond. “Like I wasn’t completely gone for you.” 

The doctor interrupts them before Louis can say anything in response; he doesn’t know what he’d be able to say to that anyways. The doctor gives them instructions for discharge, makes sure Harry knows to periodically wake Louis up throughout the night. Harry’s a hockey player; he knows the drill. 

“One of our friends is a nurse,” Harry tells the doctor. “I’ll have him on standby.” 

Harry takes them home to a nice apartment building. They take the lift up to the fourth floor and, despite how expensive the flat clearly is, it’s very much _them_ and lived in just like the last one. Stepping out of the elevator, the first thing Louis sees is the same orange couch from the first apartment. Louis faceplants onto it, glad for one more familiar thing. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy to see you, couch.” 

Harry, who had been walking past, freezes. “You remember the couch? Of course you remember the fucking couch.” 

Louis shrugs, glancing up at him blearily. He thinks the painkillers they gave him at the hospital are starting to wear off. He should take his contacts out before he falls asleep, but he doesn’t want to move. “I remember you,” he says. 

“Yeah, I don’t think amnesia normally works like that.” 

“The brain is a mysterious thing,” he comments, closing his eyes. 

“Don’t go to sleep yet,” Harry tells him, voice sounding further away. “I’ll make you some tea, and you can take some more medicine.” 

“Thank fuck. You read my mind.” He listens to Harry moving around the apartment for a few minutes. “I should probably call home, huh? Let them know what happened.” 

Something clatters in the direction of the kitchen. Louis blinks open his eyes and rolls over to see Harry coming out of the kitchen, looking weary. 

“You can’t call home yet, Louis.” 

“Why?” 

“It’s the middle of the night there.” 

Louis turns to look out the floor to ceiling windows, trying to estimate what time it is. “Where are we?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Harry hesitates, and Louis turns back to him. “Vancouver.” 

“Vancouver… Washington?” 

Harry shakes his head. “No, British Columbia.” 

“We live in Canada.” Harry nods. “Oh. I guess that makes sense. You play for the…” 

“Canucks,” Harry supplies. “We’re first in the pacific division right now.” He turns back to the kitchen. “I’ll finish making your tea and you can take a nap, alright? I’ll wake you up later and you can call your sisters.” 

Louis doesn’t say anything, just carefully rolls off the couch to go in search of the bathroom. The apartment is bigger than he’d imagined; he has to walk past a guest bathroom and two guest bedrooms before he finds the master suite. He got so used to the bedroom in the last universe that he almost expects to walk into the same room. This bedroom is bigger, though, with a large bed against one wall. There’s a desk against another wall, messy with stacks of paper. He drifts towards it. 

It’s all his own writing, he can tell. Half written articles, notes to himself, songs, prose, random bits of fiction here and there. An organized mess that only he could ever make sense of. It’s weird and comforting to know that even when he isn’t himself he’s still himself. 

He doesn’t go through any of it, once again feeling like he’d be snooping. There’s a bookcase next to the desk, though, and that he does peruse. It looks like a mix of Harry and his interests: random non-fiction, a lot of short story collections, poetry, and literature nobody but Harry’s heard of, with only a few best sellers mixed in. There’s a lot of nicknacks, too, strange bookends that Louis doesn’t look at too closely, a small mermaid statue that looks remarkably similar to Harry’s tattoo, and a bunch of photo frames. 

Some of the photos are of their family — him and his mum, him and his sisters, Harry and his family, Harry _and_ Louis and their families. Most of the photos are of him and Harry, or him and Harry and the boys. There’s one of them at what would appear to be a graduation. Louis is in robes, but Harry’s stolen his hat. Or maybe Louis put it on his head, either is a safe bet. There’s one of Harry and Liam in their hockey uniforms, holding a trophy. There’s one of Zayn in his scrubs, flipping off the camera and smoking. There’s one of Louis and Niall sitting at desks. Niall is laughing, and Louis looks like he’s in the middle of saying something to the person behind the camera, but he’s happy. There’s another graduation picture, this time Harry’s. And there’s one of just him and Harry at a fancy party. They’re dressed up all nice, and Louis is holding... He picks the photo up, peering closer. 

“No shit.” 

He scans the bookshelf again and _there_. What Louis had mistaken for a bookend is actually— 

“Your pulitzer,” Harry says from behind him, causing Louis to jump and nearly drop the damn thing. 

Louis stares down at his name engraved in the glass. “What the fuck.” 

He looks up and Harry is smiling at him, soft and proud. 

“I’m _that_ good at journalism?” 

“Well, yes, but that’s not what it’s for.” He comes to stand beside Louis and pulls a slim book off one of the shelves. He holds it out to Louis, but Louis just stares at it. 

_**Home**_ , it says. And there’s his name on it. The cover photo is just black and white, a pair of holding hands. Fuck. He doesn’t have to open it to know what it’s about. 

“I think I need to lie down.” 

✰✰✰

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps for. After he took his contacts out, Harry made him some tea, and he took his medicine. He wakes to Harry’s hand, warm against his cheek. He leans into it automatically. 

“Honey, come on. Let me see those baby blues.” 

Louis blinks open his eyes. 

“There we go.” Harry smiles. 

“What time s’it?” 

“About nine o’clock.” 

Louis groans and rolls over, his head thumping uncomfortably. “Wanna sleep,” he says. 

“I know, baby. How’re you feeling? How’s your head?” 

“Same,” Louis says unhelpfully. “Headache.” 

“Alright, go back to sleep.” He gets up to leave, and Louis manages to grab onto the bottom of his shirt. 

“Where’re you going?” 

“I—I was going to go…” His voice trails off. “I didn’t know if you’d want me sleeping in here.” 

Louis frowns. “Don’t leave me. Please.” 

“Of course, baby. I won’t go anywhere.” 

It’s too dark to really see, but Louis can feel him trying to leave, so he tightens his hold on Harry’s shirt. 

Harry chuckles. “Baby, I gotta change. I’ll sweat to death with all your blankets if I get under the covers like this.” 

Letting go, Louis huddles further under his covers. “I’m comfortable.” 

“Of course you are,” Harry tells him. “Because you’re secretly an amphibian.” 

Louis is fairly certain _his_ Harry has said the same thing at some point. 

“I’m not complaining,” Harry continues, his voice now coming from the other side of the bed. Louis listens to him move around until Harry spoons up behind him, shirtless now and still bloody hot. “Don’t mind keeping you warm.” 

Louis frowns, opening his eyes. “What are you doing?” There’s no way in _any_ universe Harry is a big spoon. Not that he _minds_ , but what the fuck. That might be scarier than everything else put together. 

Harry kisses the back of his head and laughs quietly. “Just warming you up, don’t have a heart attack. Of all the things you remember, it’s that bloody couch and our sleeping arrangements.” 

“It’d take a lot more than amnesia to make me forget that couch,” he says. “Seared into my mind, it is.”

When he feels like he’s starting to fall back asleep, he rolls over and pokes at Harry till he does the same. Louis pulls him into his arms and relaxes. 

“Much better.” Nothing beats this. Like this, he can pretend this is _his_ Harry. 

✰✰✰

There’s no routine for Louis to fall into this time. Harry doesn’t go to practice, instead electing to stay home and take care of Louis. 

Louis calls his family when he can. Harry cooks and bakes incessantly. They watch movies without any explosions or flashing lights — so mostly animated movies. Louis watches The Lion King seven times. They listen to soft music. They sit out on the balcony in the evenings. 

By the fourth day, Louis is going out of his mind. They argue about Harry going back to practice until, as a compromise, Harry agrees to go back as long as Niall comes over on the guise of “keeping Louis company.” 

“You probably don’t remember Niall, huh? He works on the paper with you.” 

Of _course_ he remembers Niall. He doesn’t tell Harry this, though. 

Niall is a sight for sore eyes. He shows up right before Harry needs to leave, with takeout pizza and a cheery smile. 

“I love you,” Louis says earnestly. To the pizza. He loves Harry’s cooking, but sometimes you just need a good greasy pizza. 

As soon as Harry’s left, Niall says, “Amnesia, huh?” 

Louis nods. 

“Great! I have so many embarrassing stories about Hazza I can tell you.”

✰✰✰

Niall comes over again the next day. Louis is in a particularly bad mood. He feels restless. He wants to _do_ something. He told Harry this yesterday, so they had gone for a walk. A _walk_. Louis doesn’t want to go for a walk even when he _doesn’t_ have a concussion. 

“You’re grumpier than usual,” Niall notes. “You don’t even have any deadlines to stress over.” 

“I haven’t had sex in almost a week,” Louis snaps. 

Niall chuckles. “That’ll do it. You always were unbearable when Harry had away games.” 

He hadn’t even thought of it; the words had just come out. He’s gone longer without sex, much longer, so it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. He’s not used to Harry being _right there_ and not being able to touch him, though. This Harry barely even kisses him, too worried about his healing concussion and that the amnesia has somehow changed things between them. Harry’s walking on eggshells around him, and Louis wants to scream. The only time he lets Louis touch him for prolonged periods of time is at night, when he’s happy to be the little spoon to Louis’ big spoon. 

That evening, when they’re in bed, Louis makes his move. The TV is quiet in the background. Harry is still wearing his shirt. Louis crawls into his lap and kisses him. 

It should be as easy as that, he thinks. Harry has always been weak for kissing. They never did much kissing, usually jumped straight into sex, but Harry always turns into a pile of goo when Louis kisses him. 

Harry kisses him back happily, but when Louis goes to pull his shirt off, Harry stops him. 

“Babe,” Harry warns. 

“Nothing extraneous,” he promises. “Just let me touch you, please.” 

Harry sighs, but let’s Louis take off his shirt. He rolls them over, so Louis is lying down and Harry is balanced over him. They kiss for long minutes. Louis runs his hands through Harry’s hair, down his back, and then over his shoulders. 

He pauses there. Something feels different. He opens his eyes and pushes Harry back a little so he can get a good look at him. It’s been four days, he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before. The only time Harry’s been shirtless is at night when they’re about to fall asleep, he reasons. 

“Holy shit,” he says. 

“What?” Harry looks down. 

Louis just shakes his head and runs his hands down Harry’s body. Harry has always been strong, but he’d also been soft. Soft tummy, soft thighs. God, Louis loves Harry’s thighs. This Harry, though, is all muscle. His stomach is rock hard when Louis trails his fingers over his abs. He’s got the legs of someone who spends all his time skating around an ice rink. Solid. 

His arse is the same at least, so there’s that. 

“Lou,” Harry whines. 

His dick, Louis notes happily, is also the same. Louis trails his fingers over it, the lightest of touches. 

“We shouldn’t,” Harry says, but he’s already half-hard. 

“Do you want me to stop, baby?” 

Harry frowns. “No.” 

It’s not even about getting off at this point. He just wants to touch, to feel. Skin against skin. Harry and him were always closest like this. Feeling Harry’s hands on him, even if they’re not _his_ Harry’s, soothes the ache in his chest a little. 

(Not completely. Never completely. Not till he has his Harry back in his arms.) 

He explores. He runs his hands over every inch of this Harry’s body, noting the differences and the similarities. He might be hard muscle, but he still sighs when Louis kisses his neck; he still gasps when Louis pulls on his hair. He still claws at Louis’ shoulders when Louis goes down on him. 

The taste of him, at least, is mostly the same. 

✰✰✰

Louis finds the ring a few days later. Harry has finally accepted the fact that Louis isn’t going to die if he’s left alone for a few hours, so Louis has the apartment to himself. 

He finds it at the bottom of his bag; he’d given in and decided to do a little snooping since he has literally no interest in doing anything else, and he doesn’t feel comfortable enough leaving the apartment on his own yet. He’s looking through the messenger bag he’d apparently had with him that first day at the ice rink; neither of them have touched it since; Harry had just dropped it next to Louis’ desk when they got home from the hospital. 

Inside, he finds a sleek MacBook _and_ an iPad, which seems to be overdoing it a little bit, but whatever. He sets both aside and pulls out a moleskine notebook next. It looks similar to the ones he carries around back home for whenever inspiration strikes. He isn’t so bored that he feels like reading his own writing, so he puts that on the desk with the laptop and iPad. There’s a folder full of papers — research, it looks like, for an upcoming article he must have been writing. Niall had told him he was a music journalist which surprises Louis not at all. He skims through the papers to see if the artist is familiar to him, and then he puts that aside as well. 

Nothing else in the bag really catches his eye: an extra contact case, his glasses — which he wishes he’d found earlier. He's tired of wearing contacts — dozens of pens and pencils; a packet of lube and a condom — which, okay, predictable. In the bottom of one of the inside pockets, he pulls out the box. 

He has a moment to think _holy shit_ he was going to propose, before he opens the box, and he’s hit with an onslaught of memories. 

In the first universe, the memories of the other Louis would just _be there_ , separate from his own memories from his own universe, but easily accessible as he needed them. When he’d found himself in the ice rink, there’d been a big empty space where this universe’s Louis’ memories should’ve been. 

Now, the memories hit him like a tidal wave, nearly knocking the breath out of him and causing nausea to stir in his stomach. The first time he’d seen this ring — or, rather the other Louis had — he had been digging through Harry’s sock drawer. He had been looking for a very specific pair of socks, his own sparkle socks he was convinced Harry had stolen. Harry had insisted Louis had forgotten about them in the move, and they were probably still in their storage unit back in London. Louis had decided to look for himself anyways, not thinking anything of it until he’d found the box stashed away at the back of the drawer. 

He had pulled the box out, opened it, and then, alarmed, actually dropped it like it had burned his skin. 

Feeling guilty, he’d put the box back in the drawer and hadn’t mentioned it. He figured, excitedly, Harry was planning on proposing. 

That had been six months ago, Louis knows. Six months and this box was still tucked away like some dirty little secret. Louis couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why did Harry have an engagement ring hidden away if he wasn’t even going to propose? It was one thing to buy a ring and then wait a month or two, but six months? That seemed a bit of a stretch. 

Maybe Harry didn’t want to marry him. Maybe he had bought the ring and then changed his mind. He didn’t think Harry wanted to break up with him; that had never sounded right. He’d never doubted Harry’s commitment to their relationship. But there had to be a reason, and Louis was determined to find out. Eventually, he snapped, and in a fit of rage, Louis took the ring and headed to the ice rink with the intention of confronting Harry about it. 

It wasn’t his brightest idea, Louis can see that, but right now he still has _that_ Louis’ thoughts and feelings and memories floating around inside his head, and he wonders. 

He grips the box tightly in his hand. 

Harry is at practice again. Maybe Louis can avoid getting body slammed this time. 

✰✰✰

He doesn’t just waltz onto the ice this time, because he’s not an idiot. In his defense, they weren’t actively practicing last time he’d shown up. Half the players had been off the rink, taking a break. Harry and Liam had been standing at center ice, talking and laughing. Gordon probably hadn’t meant to slam into Louis so hard, he reasons; that doesn’t make the guy any less of a shithead — he’s never been particularly nice to Louis _or_ Harry. 

This time, he stands by the benches, waiting. Most of the team ignores him, used to Louis’ presence. Liam spots Louis before Harry does. He waves to Louis and then nudges Harry while he skates past him. When Harry sees Louis, his face lights up, a mix of confusion, worry, but unmistakable fondness. 

When Louis holds up the box, Harry’s expression pales considerably. Louis doesn’t need to be able to read lips to know the words out of Harry’s mouth are, “Oh, shit.” 

_Oh, shit is right,_ Louis thinks. 

They meet as Harry has just stepped off the ice. 

“So, we’re going to do this now, then,” Harry says. 

Louis frowns. That hadn’t really been the response he’d been expecting. “If by _this_ you mean you explaining why you’ve had an engagement ring hidden in your sock drawer for at least six months, then yes, we’re doing this now.” 

Harry’s expression shifts slightly. “Your memories are coming back?” 

Louis shrugs. “A little bit, vaguely. That’s not the point! Were you planning on _ever_ proposing to me?” 

Harry glances around. Louis doesn’t look away from him, but he guesses people are starting to stare. Louis’s not exactly winning awards for subtly here. 

“Come with me.” Harry grabs Louis by the sleeve of his shirt, leads him down the hallway and into the locker room. He stops in front of what Louis presumes is his locker. He digs around in it for a moment before he pulls out a box similar to the one in Louis’ hand. 

Stupidly, he thinks _why did you buy two engagement rings_ before Harry is popping it open, and once again Louis remembers. He covers his mouth with his hand, muffling his gasp. 

Apparently Louis is a fucking sap in every single universe. He doesn’t know why this surprises him so much. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, misinterpreting Louis’ reaction. He snaps the box closed. “I _was_ going to propose, but then I found _this_ in the closet. So, maybe you should explain _yourself_.” 

Louis shakes his head. “Are we really fighting over this?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper. Harry’s words _I was going to propose_ are on repeat in his head. 

Harry’s features soften. “No, of course not. I just… I don’t understand.” 

“I wasn’t going to propose,” Louis says. 

“Then why do you have an engagement ring?” Before Louis can answer, Harry gasps. “Oh my God, was this for someone else? Or did someone else give it to you? And you’ve just been holding on to it this whole time.” 

He’s rambling, holding out the box like it might catch on fire any second. Louis rolls his eyes. “No, God. I bought it for you.” 

“But you just said—”

“I bought it back in London,” he explains, not meeting Harry’s eyes. 

“You’ve had it _that long_ and you weren’t planning on giving it to me?” 

“I mean, yes, of course, one day.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I just. I saw it randomly one day, and it made me think of you, so I bought it even though it cost me the majority of my savings and… and we’donlybeendatingaweek,” he rushes out. 

Harry blinks. “Say that last part again. I don’t think I heard you right.” 

Sighing, he meets Harry’s eyes. “When I bought it, we’d only been dating a week. I just… I wasn’t thinking. I saw it, and I bought it, and I was embarrassed. I didn’t want to freak you out. So I hid it.” 

The softest expression comes over Harry’s face. He looks like he might start crying. _Louis_ might actually start crying; he’s so overwhelmed. This isn’t even his Harry. 

“What the fuck. You’ve wanted to marry me since then?” 

“Yes,” Louis says without hesitating, because he knows it’s true for this universe. He deliberately does not think about all the rings he’s bought _his_ Harry. It’s completely different. 

“Well,” Harry says, looking expectant. 

“Well what?” 

“Go on, then,” Harry says, motioning with his head to the ring. He looks proper excited now, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little. 

Louis glances around. “ _Now_? Here in the locker room?” 

Harry nods quickly. “Yeah, do it.” 

“ _No_. I’m not proposing to you in _a locker room_.” 

“We met in the locker room,” Harry says. “It’s fate.” 

They met in the locker room. God, that’s almost as bad as the bathroom. “This is ridiculous.” 

“Louis, I am walking out of here your fiancé whether you like it or not.” 

“Are you… Let me get this straight, are you actually _threatening_ me into proposing?” 

Harry shrugs, unperturbed. He’s grinning. “You were going to do it eventually anyways.” 

Louis takes the box, shaking his head. If he doesn’t propose to Harry, Harry’s going to propose to _him_ , and Louis doesn’t think he’s emotionally stable enough for that. 

“You’re ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m going to marry you.” 

It isn’t until he’s already down on one knee that he realizes what he’s doing. There’s a split second of confusion, and then he has to remind himself where he is and what’s happening. This isn’t _his_ Harry. 

He tries to channel the other Louis, but he just feels nauseated and overwhelmed, like he might throw up all over the floor. He wonders if it’s a side effect of the concussion, or something else entirely. He imagines this is probably what loads of people feel like when they’re proposing. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath. 

“Harold,” he says, when he opens his eyes. Harry mutters something in response, but Louis ignores him. “Harry,” Louis says, softer. He can’t think of words, can’t think of anything other than _Harry, Harry, Harry_. 

He looks up finally, meeting Harry’s gaze, and something clicks into place. 

“It took me a year to stop being a knobhead and realize there was nothing remotely platonic about the way I feel about you. It took me less than seven days to realize I couldn’t live without you. I moved halfway across the world for you, and I’d move halfway across the galaxy for you in a heartbeat. I don’t know what I did to get so lucky, but I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy. Will you marry me?” 

They’re both full on crying by the time he’s done, but Harry still manages to tease, “I don’t know. I have to think about it. Ask me again in six months.” 

“You’re such an arse.” He pulls Harry’s glove off and slides the ring onto his finger. 

Harry pulls him up and kisses him. “Of course, I’ll marry you,” he says in between kisses. “I love you so much.” 

Louis has half a second to think _oh shit_ , and then he’s being yanked backwards into darkness. 


	4. Three.

This time, when he comes to, he’s in bed. He thinks, _I’m at the hotel. I’m back home. I’m home now. It’s over. It was just a weird dream._ When he opens his eyes, he’s unsurprised to find himself in an unfamiliar bedroom. 

It’s a decent size room, bigger than the first, but smaller than the last. There’s a couple bookcases, picture frames everywhere he doesn’t look at too closely. The comforter draped over him is lavender, and there’s a handmade quilt on top of it. 

Harry is snoring quietly beside him, the blankets kicked off of him. 

Louis buries his face in his pillow and tries not to scream. 

✰✰✰

He doesn’t give Harry a chance to talk. It stands to reason that if Harry’s mouth is busy, he can’t tell Louis he loves him. Louis has caught on by now what’s going on; every time Harry tells Louis he loves him, he wakes up in a different universe. And fuck that stupid ass fairy what’s her face. Louis never caught her name, but _fuck her_ for making Louis have to look at Harry, all soft and fond, repeatedly telling Louis he loves him. What is the point of all this? To torture Louis? Is it punishment for Louis not wanting Harry to fall in love? Because he’s selfish? Great, he’s learned his lesson.

Harry had gotten up to use the bathroom and brush his teeth. Louis meets him at the door and kisses him. He doesn’t stop kissing him. Every time Harry so much as opens his mouth, Louis kisses him again. 

Louis gets distracted, because hello, it’s _Harry_ , and starts biting down his neck. Harry giggles. “And here I was thinking you’d want to use our day off to be productive.” 

Thank fuck they have the day off, Louis thinks, and drags Harry to bed. 

✰✰✰

Louis fucks Harry with single minded determination: to render him speechless. If he may say so himself, he’s doing an amazing fucking job — no pun intended, but God, he’ll have to tell that one to Harry when he gets back. 

_If_ he gets back. 

He doesn’t think about it. 

He opened Harry up slowly, till he was a writhing mess against the sheets, sweat dripping down his chest that Louis chased with his tongue. He waited till Harry started begging, then he slid inside, skin against skin, nothing between them. 

Harry is past the point of speech. His legs have dropped from Louis’ waist, his fingers clutch at the sheets now instead of Louis’ shoulders. His mouth drops open on an exhale. 

Louis kisses the column of his throat, breathes in his scent. “You still with me?” 

Harry’s answer comes in the form of a drawn out moan. Louis can’t stop himself from grinning in reply. If fucking Harry were a sport, Louis would be an Olympic gold medalist. Over and over again. 

He bites down on Harry’s neck, pulls his hair just enough to have Harry whining, but not hard enough to have him coming. He pulls out almost all the way and then pushes back in slowly, aiming for Harry’s prostate — and hitting it, if his mewl is anything to go off of.

He wants to make it last, see how far he can go. The minutes tick by, and Harry just _takes_ it. When they’re like this, Harry’s long legs sprawled over the sheets, blankets pushed onto the floor, Louis fucking into him achingly slow, Louis can pretend. He looks like his Harry like this. His arms are a little less toned, but he’s still got those glorious love handles, baby soft skin around his hips. His thighs are thick and nearly hairless; Louis wants to bite them, mark them up. 

Harry tries to grab at his shoulders again, fingers sliding over sweat slick skin. 

“Yeah, baby?” Louis presses a kiss to his lips, and Harry is a few seconds late in returning it. “What color are you?” He asks the question thoughtlessly, like he would if this really were his Harry. He pauses, frantic, but Harry nods his head quickly. 

“Green, daddy.” 

The panic eases, but the pressure in his chest doesn’t. It’s not the same. It’s not _him_. 

He fucks Harry harder, faster after that, trying to speed things along, trying to get back to the point where he didn’t have to think or feel. Harry throws his head back against the pillows, and Louis attacks his neck, not caring about whether he should or shouldn’t leave marks. 

“Come on, baby. Want you to come for me.” 

Harry does, with nothing but Louis’ abdomen rubbing against his prick. 

“Where do you want me to come?” he asks, slowing his ministrations. 

A moment passes in which he thinks Harry’s not going to reply, and then Harry gestures to his chest. 

“On me,” he says. “Please.”

Louis can do that. He pulls out carefully, watching Harry’s face as he winces slightly. He sits up, jacking himself until he comes all over Harry’s chest and abdomen. When he settles back down, he can’t help but tease around Harry’s rim with a finger. He’s so wet and open, Louis’ finger slides in easily. Harry squirms against the sheets, but doesn’t say anything, so Louis eases another finger inside. 

“Fuck, Lou.” 

“You think you can come again?” 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, fingers tight in the sheets. “I gotta… I’m on call,” he says. “I gotta shower. I…” 

Louis pulls his fingers out, but Harry wiggles his hips against the mattress, scooting down like he’s chasing after Louis’ fingers. Louis slides two of them back inside, and Harry lets out an audible breath, like he’s comforted by Louis fingering him open, having something inside him. Louis will never get enough of this, in any universe. 

“Quick,” Harry says. 

“Yeah, baby. Should put a plug in you. Keep you full all day.” 

Harry gasps, gripping his shoulders tight enough they’re sure to leave bruises in their wake. 

Louis doesn’t waste time, scissoring his fingers and then adding a third. He curls his fingers just right, rubbing them up against Harry’s prostate. His cock is hard, heavy against his abdomen, not having a chance to go soft. Louis bends over and sucks it into his mouth. 

It doesn’t take long. When Harry comes, it’s a few minutes later, with his cock in Louis’ mouth and Louis’ nose pressed up against his groin. 

Louis drops down beside him. Harry’s arm is covering his face. 

“I think… you killed me.” 

Louis snorts, doesn’t think about having said those exact words to his Harry just a short time ago.

✰✰✰

Harry does eventually get called into work after a lazy morning of sex and lounging around in front of the telly. 

They’ve both already showered — together, with Harry coming a third time, this time inside of Louis, his larger body bracketing Louis in against the shower wall. 

When Harry gets the call, he’s only dressed in joggers, so he gets up to change into his scrubs. Because he’s a doctor. But not just _any_ doctor, he’s a veterinarian. Of course. 

Louis watches him while pretending to flip through the channels. Harry moves about their apartment habitually, filling his water bottle up, stuffing a change of clothes and an extra set of scrubs into his backpack, slipping into his tennis shoes. His keys jingle in his hand when he leans down to ghost a kiss across Louis’ forehead and then his lips. 

“I’ll text you,” he says. “Hopefully won’t be long.” 

Louis waits with bated breath for the inevitable, but Harry leaves the apartment without another word. 

✰✰✰

While Harry is gone, Louis continues to do absolutely nothing. He stares at the television without really seeing what’s playing. He thinks about snooping like he’s taken to doing in the past two universes, but he no longer has the drive or the curiosity to _care_. There’s an ache deep inside of him. Part of it, he knows, is because he’s tired; he wants to go home, to his real home. There’s a part of it that’s different, though, new. 

He’d been expecting Harry to say _I love you_ , had been waiting for it. He doesn’t know why it’s bothering him so much, but he can’t stop thinking about it. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but there’s a romantic comedy playing in the background when he realizes he’s _moping_. He turns the television off and resists the urge to throw the remote across the room. If he’s going to mope, he might as well do it right. He drags himself off the horrid orange couch — at least one thing is consistent — back to the bedroom, throws himself into bed, and falls back asleep.

When he wakes up again, it’s early afternoon, and he’s hungry. On autopilot, he moves through the kitchen, throwing food together and putting it all in a tote bag that’s decorated with a print of bumblebees. He’s already in the car and pulling out of the driveway when he realizes he has no idea what he’s doing. 

Stopping at a red light, he stares at the bag sitting in the passenger seat. Flashes of doing this exact same thing, countless times before, shoot through his memory. It’s a whirlwind, and it takes someone honking behind him to bring him back to the present. 

When he gets to the clinic where Harry works, he stops dead in his tracks inside the door. Sitting on a little bench near the front is none other than his damn fairy godmother. 

Louis has never wanted to hurt another person so bad in his entire life. 

She’s holding a tiny, hairless dog that keeps yapping. He’s pretty sure Clifford’s had bigger poops. 

The fairy looks up at his approach and smiles. “Hello, dear. I was wondering when I’d be seeing you again.” 

He grinds his teeth, doesn’t say, _you’re the one orchestrating this whole thing_. “End it,” he says instead, fists clenched at his sides, one around the handle of the bag. “End it _now_.” 

“Oh?” She sounds honestly surprised. “How come? You seem to be enjoying yourself.” 

His jaw clenches painfully. “ _Enjoying_ myself?” 

She smiles. “You proposed to him.” 

“That wasn’t me!” he argues, his voice raising slightly. “I was just,” he waves his arms around, gesticulating vaguely. The bag of food hits his thighs, and he frowns. “I was just filling in.” 

She sighs, the smile finally dropping off her face. The dog in her lap seems to be two minutes away from biting someone's finger off, probably Louis’. She says, “You haven’t caught on then, yet. I guess if you had, you wouldn’t be here,” she muses. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes. You think me and Harry are soulmates. I get it. You’re a fan. Look, me and Harry have never dated. Thanks for your support, though.”

When she looks back up at him, her expression is dark, her eyes narrowed. He just barely manages not to jump back at the intensity in her gaze. He’s met some hardcore fans, many of which believed him and Harry were in a relationship, but he’s never been _scared_ of one before. 

“When you can admit the truth to yourself, then you can go home.” Her voice sends ice through his veins. 

“Soulmates aren’t real. That’s not a thing!” 

“ _That_ ,” she says slowly, “is not what I’m talking about.” 

He throws his hands in the air. “Than _what_? Why are you doing this?” 

“I’m trying to help you.” 

“Why do you care?” 

He doesn’t get an answer. At that moment, the door leading out of the receptionists area swings open. Harry’s wearing pale pink scrubs and a lab coat. His hair looks messier than it did when he left, but his eyes are bright. _No deaths today, then_ , Louis thinks. Harry spots Louis immediately, and his face breaks into a smile. 

_His_ Harry, he thinks idly, has _never_ looked at him like that. And if he could look away from him, he’d tell the fairy god lady that. 

“Thank God,” Harry says, closing the distance between them. “I’m starving.” He presses a kiss to Louis’ lips, quick — there and gone. It’s the kind of kiss that speaks of familiarity. _Welcome home dear. How was work? Good morning. Good night. Let’s live in the suburbs and have 2.5 kids._ It makes something ache deep inside him.

“You’re my favorite,” Harry continues, unaware of Louis’ minor meltdown. His smile is wide, and his dimples are deep. “I love you.” 

_There it is_ , he thinks, and let’s the black take him. 


	5. Four.

Louis keeps his eyes shut for a long time, even after he knows it’s safe to open them. Safe meaning he’s fairly certain he’s not still hurtling through space and time and won’t throw up anytime soon. He does feel vaguely nauseated, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. 

He knows he’s not back home. The ground is hard and wet beneath him. The wind is cool on his face, misty. He must be outside, or there’s a window or door open nearby. Despite the cool temperature, he feels hot. There’s sweat sticking the back of his shirt to his skin. His fringe is clinging to his forehead. His shoes feel tight. 

He opens his eyes, not quite ready to face reality — or _this_ reality as it were — but not feeling as if he has a choice. He can hear a voice, a couple voices actually, calling his name. One is closer to him than the other and immediately recognizable. 

“Tommo,” Liam says, his face coming into view against the backdrop of the clear, night sky. “Are you okay?” 

Louis blinks, tries to remember something, anything, hopes he doesn’t have a concussion again. That wasn’t fun. He thinks he got hit in the stomach with a football. Probably just got the breath knocked out of him, if he had to guess, from experience. 

“Yes.” Sure enough, his voice comes out a little breathless, and he tries again. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Liam holds out a hand to help him up, pulling him to his feet. He’s a steady, familiar weight against him, and Louis has to resist the urge to bury himself in Liam’s embrace. It’s not _his_ Liam, he reminds himself, even if he sounds and looks like him. 

Louis looks down at himself, brushing his hands off against his shorts. He’s not wearing a jersey, just the shorts and a plain t-shirt. He’s got long socks on and cheap cleats that are too tight. 

“You better go tell Harry you’re okay. He looked like he was about to have a panic attack.” 

Louis lifts his head just in time to see a body come colliding into his own. Harry squeezes him tightly and then lets go just as quickly. His hands run over Louis’ arms and chest, up to his face. 

“Are you okay?” His breathing is fantic, too fast. He is indeed panicking, and his Harry or not, Louis goes on alert. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

“Baby, I’m fine.” 

“You went down, Lou, and then you didn’t get back up. For _minutes_.” 

“I’m okay,” he assures, taking Harry’s hands in his own and squeezing. “Just knocked the wind out of me.” 

Harry hugs him again, and something hard presses between Louis’ shoulderblades. When Harry pulls back, Louis can see it’s a camera, expensive looking, held tightly in Harry’s grip. 

“Done yet?” another voice hollers. 

Niall, Louis notes, watching him approach with Zayn. He studies them all, one by one, trying not to be too obvious about it. 

They all look to be younger, early 20’s if he had to guess. Harry’s hair is getting long, nearly to his shoulders, and he’s wearing a fedora. Niall is blond and doe-eyed, snapback on backwards. Liam is throwing the football up in the air, all muscle and inked skin. Zayn’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and his hair is tied into a small ponytail. He can guess what he himself looks like based on the other four; he’s sure there’s a picture out there in the world somewhere — out there in his world — of the five of them looking exactly like this. 

Harry snuggles into his side, breath warm against Louis’ cheek. Louis’ arm goes around his waist automatically. “Hungry?” Harry asks. 

“Starving,” Louis confirms. 

✰✰✰

They all head over to a pizza joint that Louis knows they’ve frequented numerous times. He keeps getting flashes of his life here, growing up with these boys, becoming best friends with Liam and Zayn, meeting Niall and Harry when they all started secondary school. Like most universes, it would seem, it took Louis a long time to admit he and Harry were _more than friends_ , but they’ve been together since they were teenagers. 

He piles into one of the booths next to Harry, while Zayn excuses himself to smoke his cigarette. Liam goes up to the counter to put in their order while Niall chats up one of the waitresses who’s cleaning off the bar. Louis thinks about joining Zayn for a cigarette - he could use one - but his addiction doesn’t feel as prominent here. Also, Harry is fiddling with his camera, still looking nervous. 

Louis props his chin on Harry’s shoulder. “Go on, then. Show us whatcha got.” 

He doesn’t have to see Harry’s face to know he’s pouting. 

“Come on.” He nudges Harry, knocking their heads together gently. “I want to see.” 

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to.” 

He has flashes of a similar conversation they’ve had, Harry feeling like the outsider because he was, quote, weird and artistic, while the rest of them liked sports and video games. After so many years together, Harry still hasn’t quite gotten over that self conscious hurdle. 

He nudges Harry again, more playfully this time, and keeps nudging him until Harry’s pliant and giggly next to him. 

“Okay, okay.” His smile is soft. He turns on the camera, tilting away from him so Louis can’t see the screen. “Here,” he says, after a moment. He shoves the camera into Louis’ hands, and Louis takes it on autopilot, keeping it from falling in Harry’s nervous rush. Harry curls away from him once the camera is safely in his hands, shy like he’s never been around Louis. 

Curiosity eating away at him, he looks down at the screen. On it is a miniature him. The ball is on the ground in front of him and Louis’ leg is pulled back as he prepares to kick it. It’s a great picture. He looks like a proper footballer. 

“Show me more?” 

Harry takes the camera back and flips through pictures. They go back and forth like this for a minute. All the pictures Harry shows him are of Louis. Some of them from tonight, him playing football with Liam and Niall, but the further back they go, the pictures start to change. The last one Harry shows him is of the two of them, pressed together on the sidewalk in front of an apartment building. Harry’s holding the camera out in front of them to take the picture. Louis has his arms around Harry, his lips pressed to Harry’s cheek. Harry’s eyes are squinted shut, and he’s smiling. 

Louis touches the screen gently, like he could feel the soft skin of Harry’s cheek if he wanted to. He looks up. Real life Harry is watching him carefully, like he thinks Louis’s going to react negatively. He knows it’s nothing he himself has done, just Harry’s own insecurity, but he feels the urge to pepper him with praise and kisses, to assure him he’s brilliant and beautiful and talented. It’s familiar, but not something he’s had to do in a long time. His own Harry became comfortable in his own skin years ago, and now Louis has taken to teasing him constantly instead. 

Louis thumbs at this Harry’s cheek, the skin just as soft as he’d imagined - _remembered_ \- until his dimple appears. Something raw is building in his chest, something he can’t put a name to. It burns it’s way through his veins, has him tangling his fingers in Harry’s curls to pull him in for a kiss that says more than he could ever hope to put into words. 

“Oi,” Niall’s voice interrupts. “Food’s here.” 

Harry is grinning when Louis pulls back, giggly again. “I love you,” he whispers. 

Louis’ heart aches with the truth of the statement. “I know.” 


	6. Five.

“Let’s go, guys.” 

He thinks it’s a dream at first. It’s too familiar, right out of his memories. His _real_ memories. He’s staring at the same girl who played Sandy, the same lads who played the T-Birds, just a touch older now. Louis moves around the stage on autopilot, his lines and movements coming with the ease of having done this numerous times before. 

It’s not until the play is over, when he’s bowing with the rest of the cast, that he realizes he’s even _in_ another universe and not, in fact, dreaming. His family is in the front row, as expected, as they were the first time. But there, sitting in between Daisy and Phoebe, is Harry. He’s smiling up at Louis proudly, and Louis can’t look away. 

He stumbles backstage, his brain gone foggy. Everyone is moving around him too fast, and he tries to push past them. His hair is falling in front of his face. He’s sweating. He thinks someone is pulling on his jacket. Someone else is hollering his name. “ _Wait, Louis, wait_.” He doesn’t care. He just needs —

There he is, waiting for Louis with the rest of his family. He’s all flyaway curls and cheeks just starting to lose their roundness. He’s even got a bloody blazer on — Louis is going to _scream_. 

He doesn’t think. He feels twenty again; he probably _is_ twenty again, fresh out of his teens and ruled by his emotions, incapable of doing anything except closing the space between them. Harry is just slightly taller than him, soft edges still trying to grow into muscle. Harry opens his mouth to say something, but Louis doesn’t give him the chance. He leans in and kisses him. 

It’s a moment before Harry kisses back, but when he does it’s with enthusiasm. He clutches at Louis’ jacket, and Louis cups his face in his hands. He’s so, so soft and so eager. 

When he pulls back, Harry looks at him with eyes full of unmasked awe. 

There may be a chance, in this universe, Louis’s never done this before. 

“What was that for?” Harry asks, sounding breathless. His smile melts away all of the panic in Louis’ chest. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he says. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, somehow shy and cheeky all at the same time. Louis wants to wrap him in his arms and protect him from the world. 

“Yeah.” 

✰✰✰

They go out for pizza, predictably. There’s a place just off their university campus, and Louis has dozens of memories from them spending evenings there. He invites his sisters and dad along, but they have to get back on the road before it gets dark. He thanks them for coming, pretending his sister’s aren’t giggling and whispering about him and Harry. He doesn’t care, honestly. He can’t focus on anything except Harry. _Hazza_. He feels so young again, unable to keep his hands or his eyes to himself, very aware that he doesn’t _have_ to; he’s about five minutes away from doing something ridiculous like biting him or sucking a mark into his skin. Harry isn’t making it easy on Louis, either. He’s all cheeky smiles and blushing cheeks, looking at Louis like he’s the sun and then ducking his head when he catches Louis looking back. 

Harry might be the sun, because Louis feels like he’s melting. 

They walk to the pizza parlour because it’s not far and no one feels like separating into vehicles. Louis stays at the back of the crowd with Harry, remembers doing this before and fighting the urge to grab Harry’s hand. 

He doesn’t fight it now, tangles their fingers together. Harry beams. 

They take over two large booths. The others all predictably tease him and Harry. Someone says, “It’s about damn time,” and money changes hands as they’d all apparently made bets on how long it would take them to get together. 

Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand the entire night. 

✰✰✰

After dinner, Louis walks Harry back to his dorm. It’s something he’s done before, countless times, and every single time he’d had to resist the desire to press Harry into the side of the building and kiss the breath out of him. 

Once again, he doesn’t hold back. He kisses Harry until they’re both panting. 

“Louis,” Harry says, and then again, “Louis is this — is this just like, a sex thing?” 

He feels the words like a punch to the chest. He vividly remembers a different Harry, in a different time and place, pressed up against a wall hidden away in some venue. Cheeks flushed, high on adrenaline from the show, and Louis’ hand down his pants. 

“This is just a sex thing,” he’d said. It hadn’t sounded like a question to Louis. 

The words had nearly knocked the breath out of Louis then. “Yeah,” he’d said, like a promise, a guarantee. To himself or to Harry, he wasn’t sure. He’s still not sure. 

He never lets himself think about that moment. Never lets himself wonder _what if_ , what if he’d given a different answer. 

He gives a different answer now. 

“No.” He cups Harry’s face in one hand, tilting his chin down. “No, Harry.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay? Is that — _is_ that okay?” 

Harry nods quickly, curls falling over his face. Louis brushes them back automatically. “Yeah, yeah.”

“I want to date you,” Louis tells him. “Properly.” 

He’s rewarded with a blinding smile and another, “Yeah?” 

Louis chuckles, nods. “Yeah. Is that so hard to believe?” 

Harry shrugs. “Kind of. Look at you.” 

“Look at _you_. God.” Louis leans in and kisses him again, can barely help himself when he grinds up against Harry, wants to show him what he does to him. Harry’s hard against him. “You’re so gorgeous.” 

Harry makes a noise of disagreement. Louis will keep kissing him until he believes him. He kisses him until Harry’s all but melted against the side of the dorm. 

“Don’t argue with me.” 

“Okay,” Harry agrees easily. 

They kiss for long minutes. Harry’s lips are soft, albeit a little chapped from the cold. Louis can’t keep his hands out of Harry’s hair. When he pulls back, it’s a mess. 

Louis takes a step away, doesn’t even think, just says, “Fix your fringe,” like he normally would. The lines between this universe and his own, seven years ago, are getting blurred. 

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He flips his head over and runs his fingers through his loose curls. When he stands up straight again, his hair is a little messy, but significantly less _sex hair_. 

Louis, overwhelmed, kisses him briefly. “Perfect.” 

Harry’s beam is quickly replaced with a frown. He clutches at the front of Louis’ shirt, keeping him close. “Where are you going? Did — Do you want to come up?” 

“I have to go home. It’s getting late.” 

Harry pouts and tugs at his shirt. Louis lets himself be kissed once, twice, several times, before he has to pull away again.

“I really do have to go, darling, no amount of pouting is going to change that.” 

Harry huffs. 

“I’ll call you,” he promises. 

That, at least, earns him a smile. 

“Okay.” 

“I told you, I want to date you. I want to take you on a date before —” He gestures to Harry’s building. _Before I come up_ , because he knows exactly what would happen if he went upstairs with Harry. 

Harry bites his bottom lip and for a second, Louis thinks he’s going to say no; he worries he misread this entire situation and it’s just like before, he— Harry nods quickly. He’s not quite smiling, but Louis can feel his dimple beneath his thumb where it’s cupping Harry’s face. He’s not nervous. 

“I really like you. You know that, right?” 

All he gets in response is a shrug and the disappearance of the crater in Harry’s cheek. Louis frowns. 

“You don’t believe me.” 

“Feels like m’dreaming,” Harry says, hushed in confession. 

“Dream about me often?” Louis teases. 

Harry doesn’t take the bait. He just studies Louis intently and then nods. His eyes look suspiciously wet. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was ten, Louis. And you never — I thought you —”

“Hey, hey.” His hand slips from Harry’s cheek into his hair. He tugs him forward gently until they’re crashing together. Harry lets out a whimper and clutches Louis tight. “I’ve liked you for ages,” he says. “Since we met, really.” 

They’d met in the toilets, naturally. Harry, all fumbling limbs and too bright eyes, had broken just about every rule of bathroom etiquette by acknowledging Louis’ existence. And then, taking it one step further, accidentally splashed pee on him. 

Remarkably like really life, Louis thinks, suddenly dizzy. 

“I have to go,” he says again. It feels too real here, worse than all the other universes combined. Harry is solid and warm against him. His hair tickles Louis’ chin where he’s ducked into Louis’ embrace. He feels achingly familiar in a way that has Louis fighting the urge to bury his nose in Harry’s curls. 

“I have to go,” he repeats, desperately. He clutches at Harry, not quite sure what he even means anymore. 

✰✰✰

In a daze, he makes it back to the flat he shares with Liam and Zayn. They tease him, making comments like _where have_ you _been_ , but Louis ignores them and shuts himself in his bedroom. He lies down and stares at the ceiling. The bed feels more familiar than a bed has felt in so long. It would be so easy to slip into the life here; it feels like a life he deserves, a second chance to get it right. 

✰✰✰

They go on their First Official Date the next night. Louis buys them tickets to see a movie, of which they get bored not even halfway through and end up down the block at the arcade instead. Harry beats him at air hockey, and Louis beats him at literally everything else, because Harry’s hand eye coordination is shit at eighteen and not much better at twenty-five. 

Harry drags him into the photo booth, and they take cheesy as fuck photos. Louis kisses him during one and then keeps kissing him. He doesn’t stop until someone bangs on the side of the booth, and Louis realizes he’s got Harry pressed into the bench seat, hard and panting. 

Eighteen, he reminds himself. Harry is _eighteen_. Back home, seventeen-year-old Harry had been with exactly one other guy before Louis; it’s unlikely this Harry has much more experience than that. At eighteen, Louis had been with two girls and exchanged rushed handjobs with an older boy in the back of a club; this Louis is significantly less experienced. 

They need to slow down. Louis needs to calm down. 

After they finish at the arcade, they go to a diner for dinner. Their feet tangle underneath the table. Harry’s got the giant teddy bear Louis bought him with his ticket winnings sitting on the seat next to him. 

“Are you going to name him?” Louis asks. 

“He hasn’t told me his name yet,” Harry informs with a cheeky grin. “He’s shy.” 

Louis is torn between the urge to melt into a puddle of fondness and crawl across the table to pepper Harry’s face in kisses. 

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” 

Harry sticks his tongue out at him, unperturbed like Louis knew he’d be, and turns back to the menu. The waitress shows up a minute later and doesn’t bat an eye at the bear. 

“Are you two ready to order?” 

Harry prattles off his order: pancakes. Louis has to flip through the menu quickly with the realization that he'd been staring at Harry this entire time and hadn’t spared the menu so much as a glance. 

After dinner, Louis drives Harry back to the dorm. At a red light, Harry tangles their fingers together over the center console. Louis stares at them, flabbergasted. Harry must take his expression for something else, because he tries to pull his hand back, cheeks flushing pink. Louis just tightens his grip, kisses the back of Harry’s hand, and resumes driving. 

The thing is, before yesterday, he can’t remember the last time he held Harry’s hand. Maybe when they were on X-Factor or back in 2011. Not since they started sleeping together, not that he can recall. He thinks he’d remember. It shouldn’t be such a big deal — he held his hand yesterday and he full on had his tongue in Harry’s mouth an hour ago — but it feels like so much more than anything they’ve done thus far. It’s Harry reaching out for _him_ , not the other way around. His heart is thudding heavily in his chest, and his stomach feels all fluttery. 

Butterflies, he realizes. He’s got bloody _butterflies_ just from Harry holding his hand. 

He’s young, he reasons, it’s different. 

Louis walks Harry to his dorm and gives him a chaste kiss, refusing to deepen it because he knows for a fact Niall is on the other side, probably with his ear pressed to the door like the snoop he is. 

“You want to come in?” Harry asks. 

Louis sighs regretfully. “I can’t. I have an early class tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” he says, sounding resigned. “Text me.” He hasn’t let go of Louis’ hand yet. 

“I will.” 

“When you get home,” Harry clarifies. “Drive safe.” 

Again, softer, “I will.” He kisses Harry again, a gentle press of their lips. “Goodnight.” 

“Night, Lou.” 

✰✰✰

He’s unprepared for class then next morning. Not memory wise — he remembers everything he needs to, or at least, he hopes he does. Having to get up and go to classes in general, though, is not something he thought he’d ever have to live through again. He’s never done the whole university thing, and while he has this Louis’ memories of it, it still feels very new to him. 

The one bright spot is, he knows he’ll get to see Harry again. 

He moves through his day on autopilot, not overly concerned with retaining information; he shouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter. When he’s finished with his third back to back class, his feet take him to the science building. He leans against a wall outside one of the lab rooms. Less than five minutes later the door opens and a group of students emerge. He waits until a curly head appears, then reaches forward and tugs on Harry's arm. 

Harry looks at him, confused. “Louis? What’re you doing?” 

Louis has a brief moment to wonder if this is weird — waiting for him outside his classroom. In school he’d always done this with his girlfriend, and he’d never heard any complaints. He’s going to keep doing it until Harry asks him not to; he’s pulling out all the stops. 

“Waiting for you,” he says. 

“Oh.” Harry’s face brightens, and Louis can’t resist the urge to lean in and kiss him. “Hi,” he breathes. 

“Hi, darling.” 

“Hi,” Harry says again. Louis grins, absolutely endeared, and Harry nudges his shoulder playfully, hiding his face. “Shut up.” 

Louis keeps shut, but he can’t keep the smug smile off his face. He takes Harry’s bag from him. 

“What’re you doing?” 

“I thought we could go get something to drink, and then I’m going to walk you to class.” 

“I’m not a heroine in an eighties movie. You don’t have to carry my books.” 

“I want to,” Louis says. “Do you not want me to?” 

Before Harry can respond, they’re tackled by a blond ball of energy. 

“Hey, lovebirds.” 

Louis goes to shake him off and catches sight of the soft smile on Harry’s face that he tries unsuccessfully to hide. Niall can call them all the cheesy names he wants if it’s going to get that kind of reaction out of Harry. 

Niall goes on about how he knew they’d eventually “get their shit together.” 

“Liam owed me so much money,” Niall says gleefully. 

“ _What_?” Louis asks, so surprised he stops walking. He glances around, like he might spot the Payne in question. 

“Not like that,” Niall says. “He just thought it would take you longer to say something. And Zayn,” Niall laughs, “Zayn thought Harry would crack first.” 

Harry’s cheeks pink slightly. “What?” 

They resume walking as a unit, Niall’s arms draped over their shoulders. “Yeah. He thought you’d get fed up with Louis and just plant one on him. I said — no way, I live with him, and trust me, H’s got it in his head that Lou doesn’t even like—” He’s cut off by Harry’s hand clasping over his mouth. 

“ _Niall_.” 

“What? It all worked out in the end. And who knew it would be Tommo to do the honors? This guy.” He’s having way too much fun with this. Louis thinks about pushing him into a tree. 

They make it to Louis’ car, and Niall sighs pointedly. “I wish someone would take me to get tea.” 

“No,” Louis says, before he can ask. “You can’t come with us.” 

He watches Niall walk off, muttering something about being a third wheel, or maybe a fifth wheel. 

Harry hollers after him, “I’m sure Shawn would take you out for tea if you ask him.” 

Niall spins around. “Shut _up_. We’re just friends.”

Louis frowns. Who the hell is Shawn? 

“Uh huh.” Harry grins. “Much like me and Lou are _just friends_.” 

“Knew that would come back to bite me in the ass,” Niall grumbles and turns back around. 

Louis, confused, shakes off the whole conversation. “Are you ready?” 

Harry nods. “You know we don’t have to go get tea, though?” 

“I know you’re not going to drink tea, Harry, it’s okay. I do _know_ you.” 

“No, I mean. You don’t have to do this… whatever this is.” 

Louis frowns. “Whatever this is?” he repeats. “Me being your boyfriend?” 

Harry’s eyes widen. “ _What_?” 

“What what?” 

“Boyfriend,” Harry repeats. 

“Is that — I took you on a date, I didn’t make that up right? You enjoyed it? We kissed?” 

“Yeah, but then you didn’t want to come inside and—”

“I had a 7 o’clock class!” Louis defends. 

“I thought that was just an excuse.” 

Louis rounds the car. “ _What_?” 

“I didn’t think you liked me.” 

_In what universe_ , he thinks. “Harry, do _you_ like me?” 

“Yes, of course. Obviously.” 

“Will you _please_ be my boyfriend?” 

Harry smiles softly. “Yeah.” 

“Good. Now that _that’s_ cleared up.” He kisses him, pressing him into the passenger door. 

“On second thought—” come’s Niall’s voice nearby. “I think — Oh, God, I was not ready to see you two exchange saliva.” 

Louis drops his head to Harry’s shoulder. He’s thinking about pushing Niall into a tree again. 

“I can kiss my boyfriend whenever I want, Niall. Get used to it,” Harry says. 

“Congratulations. I’m leaving. I’m not looking.” 

✰✰✰

The weeks pass by. Louis meets Harry in between classes as often as he can; sometimes they go out for a drink or lunch, but more often than not it’s Louis offering up what is essentially drive-by kisses. In the evenings, they hang out studying, doing coursework, or watching movies — sometimes alone and sometimes with the boys. 

Over the weekends Louis takes Harry out when he can or visits him at the bakery when he can’t. They drive around, listening to music, arguing about bands. They argue about a lot of things, but Louis wouldn’t trade it for the world, even when Harry demands he stop the car and starts walking home when Louis calls him a hipster. 

Louis rolls down the passenger side window, following him along at a snail's pace. “Baby, I’m sorry. Get back in the car. I don’t care that you’re a hipster.” 

“If anyone is a hipster, it’s _you_ ,” Harry says, arms actually folded over his chest because he’s a _petulant child_. 

“Excuse me? _What_ did you just say?” He stops the car. 

Harry keeps walking. “You heard me!” 

Eventually Harry leans in the window to continue arguing with him, pulling Louis’ CD’s out of the glove compartment to try and help prove his point. Five minutes later he gets back in the car when it starts pouring down rain, still arguing. Ten minutes after that — argument _not_ forgotten; Louis is _not_ a hipster — Louis parks the car in an empty car park, and they make out in the backseat. 

They make out _a lot_ , almost more than they do anything else. Sometimes in Harry’s dorm room when Niall isn’t around. Sometimes in Louis’ flat when they have the place to themselves. Louis accosts him in between classes, pressing him into walls and hiding out in empty bathrooms. More often than not, though, they end up grinding against each other in the backseat of Louis’ car. They pant into each other’s mouths, and Harry whines, “Fuck me, Lou, just fuck me already.” 

Louis shakes his head, as tempting as the request is. 

“Why not? Do you not want—”

He cuts that train of thought off before Harry can even put it into words. “Baby,” he presses his hard length into Harry’s leg, “I want you so bad. Not like this, though. Wanna do it right, sweetheart.” 

“Don’t care,” Harry complains, frustrated. “Just want you.” 

He kisses promises into Harry’s skin where his shirt has rucked up, exposing his belly. “Soon.” 

✰✰✰

Soon doesn’t come until the week of finals. Liam and Zayn casually mention they’ll be going out of town to visit Liam’s and then Zayn’s family over break, leaving Saturday morning and returning the following Saturday. 

Louis makes a phone call and then heads out to find Harry. 

He finds him in the back corner of the library, studying. Books are sprawled across the table in front of him and a girl nearby keeps shooting him glances of the _is this kid okay?_ variety as opposed to the _this kid is cute_ variety. 

“I made dinner reservations for Saturday night,” Louis tells him, “assuming you don’t already have plans.” 

Harry shakes his head, but doesn’t look up from his textbook. “Nope. That sounds good.” 

That wasn’t exactly the reaction he was hoping for. They’ve gone on dates, but not _proper_ dates, not out to _dinner_ at a place that wasn’t a quirky little diner or the pizza parlour. 

He clears his throat, and Harry glances up. “What?” 

“I don’t think you understand. I made dinner reservations,” he starts. 

“I’m sorry. That sounds really nice, Lou. I’ll be properly excited when I’m done stressing over this test, I promise.” 

Louis shakes his head. “I wasn’t finished. I made dinner reservations,” he says again, “at an expensive restaurant.” 

“Okay,” he draws out, still not getting it. 

“We’re going to go eat dinner at a fancy restaurant. Afterwards, we’re going to go back to my _empty_ flat.” He leans forward, hands pressed against the table. The only one nearby is the girl studying and even she’s too far to properly hear their conversation, but he drops his voice anyway just in case. “I’m going to take you to bed, and we’re not going to leave it for a week.” 

Harry swallows. Audibly. “ _Oh_.” 

Louis stands up straight, feeling smug. “Wear something pretty,” he quips and turns to walk away. 

He just catches Harry nodding his head slowly. “Right, okay.” 

When Louis gets to the other end of the room, he turns around. Harry’s still staring into space, not focusing on his textbook at all. 

✰✰✰

Saturday comes simultaneously too quickly and not quickly enough. Louis himself is busy studying for finals as well, but he makes time to clean up the apartment to the best of his ability. Saturday morning he puts clean sheets on his bed and spends an inordinate amount of time searching through every drawer in the apartment trying to find candles. He takes a long shower and has a three-way argument over the phone with Ziam about what to do with his hair. 

“I think you should slick it back. It makes your cheekbones pop,” Liam says. 

“Nope,” Zayn argues. “I’m telling you, Harry likes it soft.” 

Louis pauses at that. “How do you know?” 

“We talk. Just trust me,” he says, and leaves it at that. 

“Why are you so nervous?” Liam asks. “You’ve gone on plenty of dates before. The boy’s head over heels for you; you’re not gonna screw it up.” 

“They’re gonna have sex,” Zayn says patiently. 

“So?” 

“For the first time.” 

Louis contemplates hanging up on both of them. “Can we not talk about my sex life? Thanks.” 

Liam actually gasps over the line. “You guys haven’t had sex yet? You’ve been together a month! You could’ve kicked us out of the apartment, mate, we would’ve understood.” 

“Payback for all the times we kicked you out of the apartment,” Zayn agrees cheerily. 

_What about all the times you_ didn’t _kick me out of the apartment?_ “We’ve been busy okay, with finals and everything. I just want—” He sighs. “I just want it to be perfect.” 

“Awwww,” Zayn coos. “Louis’s gone soft on us.” 

“I’m hanging up now!” 

“Use protection!” Liam hollers. “Don’t get him pregnant!” 

“Thanks, mum.” 

✰✰✰

Harry had texted him a few days prior asking, _How fancy is fancy?_

Louis had replied, _Four star?_ Guessing as much based on the menu and general price, and then: _What if I showed up in paisley print? Would you dump me on the spot?_

_We can’t show up wearing the same thing silly xx_

Louis laughed and replied _wait ur not going to wear a dress??????_ Mostly joking, but Harry replied with a bunch of eye emojis so he’s not sure it _is_ a joke. 

Saturday morning he woke to a text from Harry saying _can’t wait to see you tonight xx_ and Louis sent back: _can’t wait to see you in your pretty dress xxx_

Harry doesn’t actually wear a dress. Instead, he wears tight black jeans and a pink, glittery button up, the top buttons undone. 

Louis can’t keep his hands to himself all evening. It’s amazing they make it to the restaurant in one piece; Louis had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road. 

Harry is absolutely beaming. He seemed shy when Louis picked him up — walking up to Harry’s dorm door and ignoring Niall’s wiggling eyebrows — but was quickly distracted, telling Louis how good he looked in his chinos and soft gray jumper. 

“You look absolutely stunning,” Louis tells him for what is perhaps the seventeenth time that night. They’re sitting across from each other at the restaurant, legs tangled underneath the table. Louis’s spent the whole night trying to find a way to eat his food without letting go of Harry’s hand. 

Harry looks at him from under his eyelashes, cheeks faintly blushed. Louis promptly loses his breath. 

“You keep saying that. Actually, I think it’s all you’ve said tonight.”

_That_ is an exaggeration, but Louis nods. “Can you blame me? Look at yourself.” 

“Look at _yourself_ ,” Harry shoots back. “Having a hard time not jumping across the table. Can’t wait to get my hands on you.” 

Louis almost swallows his tongue. He’d nearly forgotten. As soon as he’d seen Harry, every thought for their plans tonight had been wiped clean — all he could think about is how beautiful he looks, how lucky he feels to be sitting across from him, to be the one on a date with him. Now, all he can think about is getting Harry out of his clothes. 

“Yeah?” he manages. 

Harry nods, eyes a little wide, looking a little breathless himself. “Can we go?” 

“You don’t want dessert?” he tries to tease. 

“I know what I want.” 

Good _God_. He tears his eyes away from Harry to try and spot the waiter and get the check. 

Ten minutes later Louis has Harry pressed up against the passenger side door. They’ve only exchanged chaste kisses, once when Louis picked him up, and a couple more getting in and out of the car. Louis is suddenly desperate to have his mouth on him, to touch him all over. 

Harry clutches at his shoulders and wiggles against him impatiently. “Louis, lets go. Want you.” 

Louis slides a leg between his thighs and bites a kiss into his neck. “Why the rush?” 

He groans. “I swear to God —”

“Hmm?” 

Harry tugs on Louis’ shirt, pulls him close so their chests are pressed together. He kisses Louis, deep and dirty, tongue moving against Louis’. “Take me home,” he whispers when they finally pull apart. 

Louis breathes out heavily. “Yeah, yeah, okay.” 

He may or may not speed the whole way back to the flat. 

They crash through the front door, and Louis parts from him just long enough to get it locked behind them, before Harry is shoving at his clothes. 

“Wait, wait just a second.” 

Harry groans. “I’m so tired of waiting.” 

Louis laughs lightly, kisses him on the nose. “I’m sorry. Just two seconds, love, okay? I need to go do something. Just wait right here.” 

Harry sighs, but nods, crossing his arms over his chest. Louis hurries down the hall into his room, double checking to make sure everything is all clean and ready, that he didn’t accidentally leave dirty laundry out. “Okay,” he hollers, when he’s finished. “You can come now.” 

“Gonna have to work a little harder if you want me to come,” Harry says, his voice close. 

Louis shakes his head. Harry walks in the door and stops. 

It’s the first time all night Louis has felt actively _nervous_. He’d managed to find multiple candles and he’s set them out around the room, making the space glow. 

He closes the space between them, worried that maybe he did _too_ much, that this is too cheesy, and maybe it’s not as big of a deal to Harry as it is to him. 

“I can blow them out if you want,” he offers, “I just thought—”

Harry shakes his head. “No, no it’s perfect.” 

Louis breathes out a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank God.” 

“You really thought I wouldn’t like it?” 

Louis shrugs. He thinks he knows Harry pretty well by now, but — “I was just nervous. Wanted to make it romantic.” 

Harry leans forward and kisses him softly, so different from all the other kisses they’ve exchanged tonight. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

He feels it then, like a punch to the gut. He wants this, wants Harry. He wants Harry when it’s pouring down rain and they’re arguing over whether Louis is a closeted hipster or not. He wants Harry when it’s late in the evening, and they’re stressed about classes. He wants Harry when the afternoon light is pouring through the windows in the bakery, and Harry is covered in flour. He wants Harry when he’s petulant and snotty with a cold. He wants everything in between, always. 

They make it to the bed in a mess of limbs, neither of them needing to say anything more. Everything they feel is pressed into each other’s skin. Their fingertips and lips say more than words ever could. 

Louis’ jumper and Harry’s shirt end up piled on the floor. Louis presses kisses all over Harry’s chest, licking and biting at all four of his nipples until Harry is practically writhing against him. 

Harry tugs at Louis’ undershirt until Louis lets him pull it off. They roll around, giggling, until Harry has Louis under him. He spreads his palms over Louis’ ribs and presses a kiss over his heart. 

Louis rolls them over again, and they break apart to pull off their socks and shoes. Louis tugs at the hem of Harry’s jeans, silently asking permission. 

After a moment of hesitation, Harry nods. Louis sits up, straddling his thighs. 

“What’s wrong? We don’t have to do anything,” he reminds him. 

“It’s not that,” he assures. “I just — I did something.” 

“Something,” Louis repeats. “Like…” He tries to think. “Did you shave?” 

Harry gives a half-hearted shrug of one shoulder. “A little, but there’s more.” 

“More? Are you going commando?” He wiggles his eyebrows, trying to lessen the tension in the room. 

It doesn’t work. “Not quite, just—” He gestures towards his jeans. Louis unbuttons and unzips them, then pulls them down slowly. He’s barely got them to Harry’s thighs when he sees. 

“Oh—” he breathes. He feels like he may have actually died and gone to heaven. 

Harry is wearing pale pink lace panties — very nearly the same color as the shirt he was wearing and his nail polish — that do very little to hide his erection. They hug his thighs, and Louis has to press the back of his hand to his mouth, afraid he might actually start drooling or sprouting some cheesy nonsense. 

“Is it — is it okay?” 

“Okay?” Louis repeats. “Understatement of the century. Baby, you look—” He shakes his head. “You’ve rendered me speechless. I—” He pulls Harry’s jeans all the way off, unable to think past _panties panties panties_. He wants to turn Harry over and get a look at his bum. “Beautiful,” he says, sitting back against his heels. “You do this for me? Or do you often wear panties?” 

Harry shrugs, still a little shy. “Both.” 

“Look so pretty, baby. Can you turn over for me?” 

Harry nods and rolls over. Louis has to press a hand against his own hard length to keep from coming in his pants like — well, like a teenager. He wants to bite into Harry’s pretty arse. _Mine, mine, mine_ , he thinks. 

He runs his hands up the outside of Harry’s thighs, over his hips. He pulls at the fabric of the panties, just to see how much give there is. He bites at one of his cheeks, just because it’s right there and he can. 

Harry makes a noise of surprise into the pillow. 

“Okay?” Louis asks. 

“Yeah, yeah. I like it.” 

Louis kisses over the spot and lets the panties fall back into place. He rubs gently up the inside of Harry’s thighs. “Spread your legs for me, darling.” 

Harry does and Louis pulls his panties aside again so he can see his pretty pink hole. 

“So pretty,” he murmurs. He presses his thumb against his rim — just enough for Harry to feel it — and grins, satisfied, when Harry whines. 

“Lou,” he complains when Louis pulls back. “Don’t tease.” 

“Not teasing, baby. Gotta take these off, unfortunately.” He pulls Harry’s panties off and drops them over the side of the bed with the rest of their clothes. “Just wanna play with you for a bit, taste you. That okay?” 

Harry tilts his head to the side, breathless as he says. “Yeah.” 

Louis starts slow, a tentative lick along his rim that has Harry sagging into the sheets with a groan. 

“Yeah?” Louis asks. 

“Yeah,” Harry confirms. “Don’t stop.” 

Louis goes to town, progressing from kitten licks to eating Harry out proper. He fingers him open, using a mix of saliva and watermelon flavored lube that doesn’t really taste all that much like watermelon but gets the job done. Harry makes the most wonderful noises, begging and crying into the pillow he’s stuffed his face into. Louis pulls his head back; he has a feeling he knows what’s coming. 

“Please,” Harry says, voice muffled by the pillow. 

“Hmm?” He presses a finger inside, curving it until he rubs against his prostate. 

Harry whimpers into the pillow, muttering something. 

“Please what, baby? Can’t hear you.” 

He tilts his head away from the pillow. “Fuck me,” Harry gasps. “Fuck me, daddy, please.” 

Louis grins, pleased and a little smug. _There’s_ his boy. 

“Yeah, princess. Gonna take care of you.” 

Louis helps him turn over. Harry is red in the face, his mouth gaped open. “I don’t know where — I didn’t —” he starts.

Louis presses a kiss to his cheek. “It’s okay, baby. I like it. I love it,” he assures. “Alright?” 

Harry nods, still looking unsure. “Okay.” 

Louis peppers kisses all over his face until he’s giggly and relaxed again, then he reaches for the condoms. 

“Do you have to? I mean, I’ve never — are you...?” 

“I haven’t either,” Louis says. 

Something flickers across Harry’s face, surprise mixed with something else. “Really?” he asks. 

Louis nods. “Yeah, I uh — I always wanted you to be my first.” _First and only_ , he thinks. It’s probably too soon for confessions like that. 

Harry beams. “Me too. Always hoped it would be you. Can’t believe this is happening.” 

“Me neither.” Louis drops the condom back in his bedside drawer. Harry watches him as he strips the rest of his clothes. He feels newly self conscious with Harry’s eyes so focused on him. 

Harry runs a hand up his side, over his rib cage, settling on his neck. Louis shivers. 

“You’re stunning,” Harry says. 

Louis wants to shake his head. He’s never been ashamed of his body before, but he feels inadequate all of a sudden. He wants to be good for Harry, the best. He leans down and presses their lips together. 

“Like this?” 

Harry nods. “Wanna see you,” he confirms. 

Louis presses three fingers back into him. Harry gasps and clutches onto his shoulders. 

“I’m ready,” he says. 

“Just making sure.” He grabs the lube again, spilling too much on his hand and some on the bed sheets. He slicks himself up — _don’t come, don’t come, don’t come_ — and lines himself up. Harry wraps his legs around his waist. 

“Go slow,” Harry says, voice quiet. 

“Of course. You tell me to stop, I stop.” 

The first press inside is like nothing Louis has ever imagined. Harry is a tight heat around him. Louis has to press his forehead to Harry’s chest, repeating _don’t come don’t come don’t come_. He doesn’t want this to be over before it’s truly begun, but Harry feels so good, so tight, and he’s making these noises — gasping _fuck, Lou_. 

He closes his eyes, pausing when he’s all the way in. “Okay?” he asks. 

He feels Harry nod. “Yeah, just give me a second to adjust. You’re — big.” 

Louis presses kisses to his chest and neck. He bites down on his nipples and pulls his hair just the way he likes it until Harry is nodding and begging him to move. 

When he does, it’s slow, Louis trying to find the right angle to make it good for both of them. He hitches one of Harry’s legs up higher, onto his shoulder, and Harry throws his head back and moans. He clutches at the headboard, breath leaving him in gasps. 

“Louis — Lou, feels so good.” 

Louis can’t do anything but nod in agreement, his capability of speech has left him. He changes the angle again, trying to find that spot inside of him. He knows he’s hit it when Harry clutches at the sheets and whines. 

“There, there, there,” he pants. “Faster, _daddy_.” 

_Fuck_. He lets Harry’s leg drop and he leans over him, pushing into him faster, _deeper_. He sucks a mark into Harry’s neck. He laces their fingers together and pins Harry’s hand to the mattress over his head. 

“Gonna come for me, baby?” 

Harry nods. “Can I?” 

Louis has to close his eyes and breathe in the knowledge that he’s _asking for permission_. 

“Yeah, baby, want you to come for me.” 

When he does, he clenches tight around Louis. Louis gasps. “Talk to me, please, baby, wanna hear —”

“Daddy,” Harry whines, and Louis follows him over the edge. 

✰✰✰

Louis wakes up the next morning spooned in behind Harry. He’s surprised Harry isn’t up already, but it works in his favor today. He slides out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake Harry, and then heads into the kitchen. 

Thirty minutes later, Louis pushes the door open, hands full. He sets the tray down on his desk and cuddles back up to Harry. He presses a kiss right behind his ear. “Baby, wake up.” 

Harry wiggles. “Sleep. Wake later.” 

“But I made you breakfast.” 

There’s a stillness in the air and then Harry rolls over, blinking his eyes open. “You made me breakfast?” 

“Breakfast in bed,” Louis confirms. He starts to get up to retrieve the tray, but Harry’s hand bunches into the shirt he’s put on, holding him in place. 

“You made me breakfast,” he repeats, not a question this time. “That’s so—”

“Romantic? Cheesy? Probably burnt?” 

Harry just shakes his head, a soft, fond expression on his features. “I love you so much.” 

Louis reaches out to touch his face. “I lo—” And then something pulls at his gut, tugging him head first into darkness. 


	7. Six.

He doesn’t have enough time to think. He barely has enough time to breathe. _It wasn’t real_ , he realizes. _None of it was real_. And then there’s a knocking at his door. 

“Tommo, you up?” comes Liam’s voice. “We gotta leave soon.” 

He wants to stay in bed. He wants to roll over and bury his face in his pillow and never come out again. There’s an ache spreading through his veins. It’s painful and cold, leaving him feeling weak in his extremities. An icy hand wraps around his heart, squeezing. He can’t do this. He can’t do this again. 

“Tommo?” Another knock. 

He clears his throat. “I’m up.” 

✰✰✰

Louis moves through his day on autopilot, waiting for the inevitable. Harry’s going to appear at any moment. Louis will try not to grow attached, but do it anyways. And then Harry will say _I love you_ , and Louis will feel his heart rip itself out of his chest. And the whole thing will start all over again. 

Over and over and over. 

Liam can tell something is up. He hugs Louis twice before he drops him off at work — a tattoo parlour where Louis works with Zayn. Louis pretends not to notice Zayn and Liam sharing a look over his head. Zayn is at least much more subtle than Liam; he sticks close most of the day — as much as he can when they have customers coming in and out. When they have a free moment he shows Louis some of the sketches he’s been working on, asking for his opinion, and helping to distract Louis from his turmoil of thoughts. 

Lunch time comes and goes, and still no Harry. He’s getting anxious almost. What if he hasn’t met Harry in the universe yet? As soon as the thought occurs to him, though, he’s hit with an onslaught of memories. Harry works at the flower shop down the street. They’ve been dating for eight months. Louis has been planning on talking to Liam about Louis moving out; he’s going to ask Harry to move in with him. 

He disappears into the bathroom and leans over the toilet seat, dry heaving. His eyes burn, but he doesn’t cry. He can’t find the will to do anything else except splash water on his face and rinse his mouth out.

When he leaves the bathroom, Harry is standing at the front desk. He’s conversing quietly with Zayn, and there’s a vase full of flowers on the counter that wasn’t there when Louis left. 

His stomach twists uncomfortably and he has to fight the urge to turn around and hide in the bathroom. 

Harry, sensing his approach, turns and smiles at him. It’s that soft, fond smile he’s consistently been sporting in every universe. His hair is long again, falling past his shoulders in gentle curls. He’s got tinted gloss on his lips and dirt under his nails. 

Louis misses Harry with an intensity he hasn’t felt in a long time. But this isn’t his Harry. This isn’t his world. 

Harry’s smile drops, and his Harry or not, that’s not what he wants. He tries to smile, but Harry continues frowning. 

“Everything okay?” he asks. He closes the distance between them and envelopes Louis in a warm hug. If Louis closes his eyes he can pretend, just for a moment, that this is his Harry. “Are we still on for tonight?” 

Louis nods. What choice does he have? Better to get the inevitable over with sooner rather than later. 

Harry pulls back just far enough to look down at him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

He nods again. “Yeah,” he manages. “I’m okay.” 

“I brought you some flowers,” Harry says. 

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.” He has a dozen different memories of Harry doing this, starting before they ever went on a date. Harry would bring him flowers, and Louis would try and guess what they were and what they meant without looking it up. He’s not very good at it, but in all fairness, he usually tries to see what the most ridiculous flower meaning is he can come up with. Louis doesn’t have to guess what these flowers are; he already knows. They’re peonies. 

“I have to get back,” Harry says, starting for the door. Louis touches one of the flowers gently with the tip of his finger, breathing in the scent. “Do you know what they mean?” 

Louis doesn’t look up. He nods. “They’re an omen of good fortune,” he says. 

Harry’s voice is quiet. He waits at the door, one hand on the handle. Louis can feel his eyes on him. “Do you know what else they mean?” 

Louis meets his gaze. “A happy marriage.” Harry may have left one or two of his books lying around Louis’ apartment. Louis may or may not have thought about buying Harry peonies and proposing to him. It looks like Harry’s going to beat him to it. 

Harry smiles. It’s a quiet, soft smile. “I love you,” he says. 

He has just enough time to nod. “I know.” 


	8. Seven.

“Are you going to finish that?” Niall asks from the back. 

Louis looks down. He’s holding a tea in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other. “Yes,” he says, and takes a sip of the tea. 

“Late night?” Liam asks from the driver’s seat of the ambulance they’re sitting in. 

Cause they’re _paramedics_. 

Niall nudges Liam’s shoulder and wiggles his eyebrows. “Date night?” Niall asks. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Niall hums. “Who _are_ we talking about, Li?” 

“I think we’re talking about _Doctor_ Styles,” Liam answers. 

“ _Harry_? What about him?” 

“Oh, so he’s Harry now is he?” Niall wiggles his eyebrows again. “Give us all the juicy details.”

“Please don’t,” Liam says. 

“ _Some_ of the juicy details,” Niall amends. 

“I don’t want any of the juicy details. I just want you to admit you’re dating.” 

“We’re not dating,” Louis says, and he knows the words are true. He has memories of Harry here, them hooking up, but nothing about dating. 

“It sure looked like you were dating when I walked in on you in the break room last week,” Niall says. 

“I know it’s been awhile for you, Niall. But that’s what _sex_ looks like.” 

Niall socks him in the shoulder. “Shut it. It hasn’t been that long.” 

“So, just sex,” Liam muses. 

Louis rolls his eyes and takes a bite of his breakfast burrito. He gets enough of this in his own universe. He doesn’t want to deal with it here, too. “Yes, just sex.” 

“Interesting.” 

“No,” Louis argues. “Not interesting. Not even a little bit. We’re both busy. Neither of us have time for a relationship. It’s convenient. We don’t even have to leave work.” 

“You _should_ leave work,” Liam says, “if Niall’s walking in on you.” 

“That was one time.” 

“One and a half times,” Niall argues. “I heard you in the janitor's closet. Don’t pretend that wasn’t you.” 

“Maybe you should learn to knock.” 

“I should knock before I walk into the very public break room at our very public place of business?” 

“We could have been napping,” Louis says. 

“You weren’t napping. Also, I could have gone my entire life without hearing _Doctor Harry_ call you—” 

Louis slaps a hand over his mouth. “Don’t. Liam will never forgive you.” 

“Call you what?” 

“You don’t want to know,” Louis tells Liam. “Trust me. And stop calling him that, Niall.” 

“What, ‘Doctor’? That’s what he is.” 

“Yeah, well. You don’t have to say it like that. Like we’re in some porno.” 

“Apparently we are,” Liam says, “if you’re hooking up at the hospital. That only happens in pornos.” 

Louis and Niall both turn to look at him. “What kind of pornography are you watching, Liam?” Niall asks. 

“Doctor on doctor action, obviously,” Louis says. 

“Who’s got the fetish now?” Niall grins. 

“Nobody was talking about fetishes,” Liam says. 

“Harry’s got a da—”

Louis slaps his hand over Niall’s mouth again. “I swear to God, Ni. And it’s _not_ a fetish. It’s a kink.”

“Is there a difference?” Niall asks seriously. 

“Yes, _God_. He doesn’t have a fetish for —” He glances at Liam. 

Before he can think of how to finish that sentence, a call comes through. 

“Time to get to work,” Liam says. 

Louis chugs the rest of his tea and hands the breakfast burrito to Niall. “Let’s go save some lives.” 

✰✰✰

Three hours later finds Louis in the break room, another tea in his hand. The TV is on in the corner, quiet, and Liam’s passed out in one of the bunks. The door opens while Louis is trying to find the will to get up and change the channel. The remote has long been lost; Louis is certain Niall’s hidden it somewhere. 

“Hey,” Harry says upon entering. His hair is tied back in a bun, and he’s wearing pink scrubs and a lab coat. He’s smiling, but the smile turns to a pout when he sees Liam sleeping in the bottom bunk. 

“Hey,” Louis responds quietly. “What’s up?” 

“Wanted to see you,” Harry says. “It’s been a busy day.” 

Louis nods in agreement. 

“You have time?” he asks, gesturing towards the bathroom at the back of the room. 

Louis does a quick mental calculation and then nods. He lets Harry pull him up and into the bathroom. Harry goes for his shirt as soon as the door is shut behind them. 

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” Harry says. He pulls the shirt up and over his head, leaving his hair a mess. He looks so much like _his_ Harry, it’s difficult for Louis to breathe. There was a part of him that thought he might not recognize his Harry, were he to ever go back home. Would he even know he _was_ home and not in another universe? But looking at Harry now — this Harry — he knows he’ll never forget. His arms, his pecs, the softness around his hips, the way Louis’ hands fit into the curve of Harry’s waist. 

He steps forward to do just that, but Harry stops him. “Why are you still dressed?” he asks. 

Louis knows they have to go back to work soon, that they only get so much time to themselves, but Louis feels an ache in his chest. He wants to savor the moment, wants to fit himself to Harry’s lines and curves. He wants to pull their bodies together until they’re one, and Louis can’t discern who is who. 

Harry tugs on Louis’ shirt, gentle and slow now. “What’s wrong?” 

_This isn’t your Harry_ , he thinks. _This isn’t him_. But even his Harry isn’t really _his Harry_ is he? This Harry isn’t even this Louis’ — they just fool around sometimes, just like they do back home. 

Louis shakes his head, unable to form words, unable to think past the rock in his chest. He feels so very alone all of a sudden. He’s in a different universe, surrounded by familiar people that aren’t really his; he’s all alone. 

Harry tilts his head up with a finger to his chin. “Honey, what’s going on?” 

“Just—” He clears his throat when his voice comes out rough. “Just a bad day is all.” It’s not technically a lie. A rough month, might be more accurate; he’s not even sure how long he’s been moving through universes. What’s happening back in his own corner of the world? 

With an arm around his waist, Harry pulls Louis to him. Louis melts against him, head under his chin, feeling small in a way he hasn’t in a very long time. Harry is all around him, one arm around his back and the other in his hair. 

“Let me take you out for dinner tonight,” Harry says. Minutes have passed, Louis thinks. They’ve wasted most of their break, because of Louis’ breakdown. “Try and get your mind off of it.” 

Louis nods, head still tucked into Harry’s chest. He can hear his heartbeat. He wonders if it’s the same as his Harry’s, if he’d be able to recognize it. There are an endless supply of universes out there, with different Harry’s with different heartbeats. He’s never taken the time to listen to his Harry’s heartbeat before, and now he doesn’t have the chance.

✰✰✰

Harry picks him up that night dressed in nice trousers and a button-up. Louis feels a little underdressed in his dark jeans and jumper, but Harry assures him he looks great. There are no stains or holes in his jeans at least, so he tries not to fret too much about it. 

But then Harry drives him to one of the nicer restaurants in town, and Louis is definitely fretting a little bit. 

There is a _candle_ on their table for crying out loud. Louis tries to subtly uncuff the bottom of his jeans and straight out his jumper at the same time. “Harry,” he hisses under his breath. “You could’ve told me to dress up. I thought we were just going to the cafe down the street like we always do.” 

He looks around, taking in the restaurant while Harry tries to assure him, once again, he looks fine. This is definitely the kind of place people propose to their significant other’s at. 

Dinner passes by, and Louis manages to relax after a glass of wine. They talk about their families, the books they’re reading, the movies they want to go see, anything and everything except work. They order dessert, and it’s when Louis is digging into his chocolate lava cake that Harry asks, “Are you feeling better?” 

Louis nods. “I am, actually, thank you. This helped a lot. It’s nice to just get away for a little bit. I haven’t been out somewhere nice in a long time.”

Harry doesn’t look up from his plate. He’s pushing a bite of cheesecake around aimlessly. 

“Are _you_ okay?” Louis asks. 

Harry sighs. “Yeah, I just—” He sets his fork down. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” His gaze is hard, steady, and Louis feels his heart drop into his stomach. 

“Okay.” He sets his own fork down, now anxious. _He’s met someone_ , is the only thing he can think. _He’s met someone new and he’s going to leave you_. It’s not a new feeling, the pain that shoots through him, he just didn’t think he’d have to worry about it _here_. Maybe his fairy godmother is tired of playing games with him, and now she’s set on making him watch Harry fall in love with someone else. _It was bound to happen eventually_. Harry’s always been too good for him. 

“I really enjoy spending time with you, Louis.” 

_Oh, God,_ he doesn’t want to hear this. He looks around quickly, wonders if he could just bolt for the door before he has to hear Harry say _I think we’re better off as friends_. 

“And the sex is great, of course, but I want more.” 

Louis clears his throat, plays with the edges of the tablecloth. “More sex?” he tries to joke. 

Harry doesn’t take the bait. “No, a relationship. I want a relationship.” 

Louis nods. “You’ve met someone then?” 

There’s a pause and then, “What? No. I mean — yes, but not—”

“It’s fine,” Louis interrupts. “I get it. Just sex, right? I understand you want to be free to start a—”

“No, that’s not it at all. Will you— are you— have _you_ found someone?” 

He thinks about lying for a split second, but shakes his head. “No, of course not. Haven’t found the time.” 

“Do you want to?” Harry’s voice is quiet, nearly a whisper. 

Louis doesn’t want to do this right now. “If you’re going to end things between us, can you just get it done and over with? And also, in the future, maybe not take people to fancy restaurants just to break up with them.” 

“I’m not breaking up with you.” 

“Of course,” he mumbles. “How could you break up with me if we’re not even—” 

“I’m not trying to end things between us,” Harry says. “I’m telling you that this casual thing we’ve got going on isn’t enough. I want more.” 

“Okay,” Louis says, not understanding. 

“With you.” 

“With me?” That doesn’t make any sense. 

“Yes, I want to date you.” 

“You want to date me?” 

“Are you going to keep repeating everything I say? Yes, Louis, I want to date you. Is that so hard to believe? I think I’ve always wanted more than just sex. I was just worried you didn’t feel the same way, but I’m tired of waiting. And — fuck it, I’m in love with you. I’m so in love with you.” 

Louis doesn’t have enough time to do anything other than gape at him. “You—” He supposes he should’ve seen that coming. 


	9. Eight.

Louis wakes in bed alone. The sheets next to him are cold and empty, and he’s huddled underneath more blankets than he’d ever need if he’d been sleeping next to Harry. 

He wonders briefly if he’s in another universe where they’re not _together_ together yet, now that it’s happened twice. Then, like nearly every other universe before, the memories start trickling in. 

Once everything slots into place, Louis goes into the bathroom and dry heaves into the toilet. 

✰✰✰

When he gets back to the bedroom, twenty minutes and a shower later, he has a text message on his phone. From Harry, of course. He’s currently in Detroit — at an away game, playing _American football_ for the _Packers_. It’s almost worse than the thought of Harry playing hockey. But at least his Harry showed a modicum of interest in American football, so it’s a little more believable, though he still thinks his fairy godmother is fucking with him. 

_Hey, sunshine_ , the text reads. _Sleep continues to evade me without you here to wrap your arms around me. I miss your smile and your laugh and the crinkles by your eyes. I miss how you make my tea. You’re right; no one else does it right. I wish I could put into words what you mean to me. Please know that I want to wake up every morning next to you. I’ll talk to you later. Text me xxxxx_

Louis stares at the text for much longer than is necessary. He screenshots it automatically and moves the picture into an album full of other shots similar to it, all good morning messages from Harry. He has to resist the urge to scroll through them all and reread them. He’s done it before — this Louis has, at least, and he’s lost entire days reminiscing and making himself depressed. 

Harry is happy, so happy doing what he loves, and he makes enough money Louis doesn’t have to work if he doesn’t want to. Louis could be traveling with him, and he does sometimes, but Harry won’t be gone for long this time, and so Louis had elected to stay home and get some writing done. 

He settles himself on the couch — the bright orange monstrocity again — after breakfast. He’s got a cup of tea sitting on the end table next to him and the speakers are playing soft classical music in the background. There are floor to ceiling windows that overlook Fox River. 

He hasn’t written anything in — well, however long he’s been traveling through universes, he doesn’t actually know. But he writes now, putting all his thoughts and frustrations and feelings into words. 

He wishes he could call Liam, to help him with the melody, or even to just talk the lyrics through like they’ve always done. The Liam in this universe is a football player on the same team as Harry, and Zayn had gone with them. He could call Niall; Niall would come over in a heartbeat — they’d play FIFA, drink some beers, order some pizza; everything would be great. He’d known just what to say to get his mind off missing Harry.

Louis goes back to bed. He buries himself under the covers and scrolls through the messages from Harry. For the first time since this all started, he lets himself cry. 

✰✰✰

At 6 o’clock that evening, while Louis is scrounging up dinner and waiting for the game to start — he’s actually going to watch _American football_ good God — the doorbell rings. 

He thinks maybe it’s Niall. Sometimes he comes over and they watch the game together and root on their boys. 

It’s not Niall. On the other side of the door waits his fairy godmother. 

He slams the door in her face. 

Not that it does any good. She’s standing in his foyer when he turns around. 

“What do you want?” he asks flatly. He’s so very tired. 

She doesn’t look particularly happy to see him either. Louis gives up on getting an answer out of her, and goes back to the kitchen to get his dinner. If she thinks she’s going to interrupt his scheduled Harry playing football time, she’s got another thing coming. 

He’s sitting back down on the couch when she finally speaks. “You know, it didn’t take any of the others this long.” 

“Others? You’ve done this to other people.” 

“You,” she says. She walks closer but doesn’t take a seat. 

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.” 

“I had to do this for other versions of you. You’re quite blind and stubborn in every universe.” 

Louis’ mouth falls open. “I don’t believe you.” 

She shrugs. “That’s not my problem. It’s the truth.” 

“You mean this is actually real? I’m _actually_ in another universe, it’s not just—” a dream, a hallucination. 

“Something like that.” 

“I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing,” he tells her. He glances towards the television where the players are starting to come onto the field. 

“Find your soulmate,” she says. 

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t believe in soulmates.” 

“Really? Eight universes and you still don’t believe in soulmates.” 

“Eight universes where we’re together,” Louis says, “but back in mine we’re not.” 

“Eight universes,” she says. “I could send you to an infinite number of them. Never ending. And you’re together in every single one.” 

“Except for one,” Louis says. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He jumps to his feet. “ _His_ ,” Louis snaps, his voice rising. “ _His_ fault. _His_ decision. If you know everything, you know that. He’s the one who set the parameters of our relationship. It wasn’t me. I didn’t—” He sucks in a breath, feeling like he’s gasping for air. “I wanted— He didn’t want more,” he says. 

She steps closer to him. “Eight universes and you still think he doesn’t love you back.” 

_Back_. 

“Admit it to yourself,” she says. “You love him. If he left you, if he fell in love with someone else—”

“Don’t,” he says, closing his eyes. “Don’t do this to me.” 

“What would you do?” 

He shakes his head. “I couldn’t— There’s nothing to do.” 

“What would you do?” she asks again, voice soft. 

Louis opens his eyes, feels tears prick at his eyes. He shakes his head again. 

She runs a hand through his hair, almost motherly, and he closes his eyes again. She sighs. “Soon,” she says. “You’re almost there.” 

When he opens his eyes again, she’s gone. 

✰✰✰

Harry FaceTimes him later that night. Louis had watched them win the game in a daze. 

“Sunshine,” Harry says as soon as Louis has accepted the call. The smile drops off his face when he sees Louis. “What’s wrong?” 

Louis shakes his head. He knows his eyes are red; he’s probably on the verge of crying again. “Nothing. I just miss you a lot.” 

Harry’s face softens. “I miss you, too, honey.” 

“I watched the game,” Louis says. “You were good.” 

“Yeah?” Harry grins. 

Louis nods. “Yeah, with the — running and throwing.” 

“You still don’t understand football at all, do you?” 

“I understand football perfectly, thank you very much.” 

Harry’s grin widens. “American football.” 

Louis deflates. “No, God, not at all. Why is it even called _football_ ,” he says. “You don’t use your feet.” 

“We’ve had this argument a hundred times before.” 

“Yeah, well it’s dumb,” he says. “It doesn’t make any sense. Bloody Americans.” 

Harry laughs. “I love you so much.” 

Louis closes his eyes and nods. 

_Every universe but ours._


	10. Nine.

He’s home. He’s almost positive this time. He’s not in the hotel bed, but he’s in a familiar bed. His or Harry’s bed, he’s not sure. They’ve had the same mattress ever since Louis looked up which one would be best. It’s all gel infused memory foam so Harry doesn’t overheat like the walking furnace he is. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he doesn’t need to; the pillow his head is on is his own. 

He buries his face into it and breathes in the familiar scent of _home_. He waits for new memories, but nothing comes to mind. He really is back home in his own universe. He made it. He wonders how long it’s been, and why he’s back at his apartment and not in the hotel he went to bed in. There’s a back pressed against his which means he’s not alone in bed either. He rolls over careful, eyes still shut, and wraps an arm around Harry. Harry presses back into his chest and sighs. Familiar. _Home_. 

And then he hears a baby crying. 

He freezes, blinking his eyes open. He can hear two cries, both the same — somewhere in the house a baby is crying, but somewhere, closer, he can hear the crying coming through a baby monitor. 

He thinks _what the fuck_ ,and then Harry is pulling away from him. He watches Harry stand up, stretching his arms; he’s littered in tattoos — more than Louis has ever seen on him. Harry turns around, bends over him and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t worry,” Harry says, “I’ll get her.” And then he’s gone, him and his tattoos walking out of the room, without even bothering to put on anything over his pants. 

Louis barely has time to roll over and contemplate what the fuck just happened when a small body comes running into the room and jumps on top of him. 

“Papa, can we have pancakes for breakfast?” 

He was wrong, he realizes at once, he’s not home. He’s in another universe again. It takes a moment to connect all the dots. Everything is mostly the same here as it is back home, except one pivotal difference. One moment where he’d made a different choice. 

_“This is just a sex thing,” Harry said._ Except maybe it had been a question. Louis can’t be sure. This Louis had thought — hoped — maybe it was a question. Instead of saying, “Yeah,” like he had there, he’d said, “Is that what you want? Just sex?” 

Harry had looked up at him with wide eyes. He had shook his head. “No, I— I want more.” 

Louis had nodded. “Me, too. I want everything.” 

They had been together, _together_. Louis looks down at his own skin. They’d gotten matching tattoos, so many Louis can’t believe they ever managed to hide their relationship. He has _oops_ and _given a chance_ written on his body in Harry’s handwriting. He’s got a compass that points to _home_ and he wants to _sob_. He’s got a dagger on his forearm to go with Harry’s rose. 

He looks at the girl who is situating herself on his lap patiently still waiting for an answer. She has familiar blonde hair and his own blue eyes. _Juliet_. Their own little jewel. She’s theirs. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Papa,” she says again, “can we have pancakes for breakfast?” 

“You’ll have to ask dad,” he says without thinking. “I’m sure he’ll make you some if you ask nicely.” 

She starts to climb off of him, and he wants to grab her and hold her to his chest, never let her go. He has a memory of another kid, at another time, a kid that wasn’t really his with a woman he’d hardly even spoken to. When he held Juliet for the first time, at the hospital, his heart had nearly burst out of his chest. _His_. She was _his_.

“You’re forgetting something,” he says, voice rough. He feels on the edge of tears. 

She crawls back up and presses a kiss to his cheek. She wrinkles her nose, mumbling about his face being scratchy. “Good morning, papa.” 

He holds her close for a long minute, presses kisses into her hair and breathes in the scent of her. “Good morning, baby girl.” 

✰✰✰

After putting on some pants and sweats, he meets Harry in the kitchen where he is indeed making pancakes — naked save for his microscopic briefs. 

“Harold,” he says. Harry just grins at him, unperturbed. 

Juliet is sitting on the kitchen island, arranging the syrups in a very specific order known only to her. Nearby, in a highchair, is the curly brown head of the newest addition to their family. His heart swells again. _His_ own little miniature Harry. 

He swings the one-year-old into his arms gently. “Tessa, baby. Good morning.” He presses a kiss to her cheek. “Tell your dad to go put some clothes on, huh.” 

“Pancakes first,” Juliet says, “then clothes.” 

Harry hands her a strawberry in reward. “That’s right, baby.” 

Putting Tessa back into her high chair, he shakes his head. He nudges Harry away from the stovetop with his hip, and takes the spatula from him. “I think I can handle some pancakes. Go get dressed.” 

“Am I that distracting?” Harry asks, wiggling his brows. 

“Children,” Louis reminds him. 

Louis finishes the pancakes while Harry gets dressed, and then they all sit at the table. Juliet dutifully hands out syrups, and Tessa flings pieces of pancake at the ground until Louis sits her on his lap and feeds her himself. After, Harry wets a flannel and cleans both of the girls faces of sticky syrup and strawberry juice. 

“Bath tonight,” he tells Juliet, who pouts in response. 

“Park today,” she says. 

Louis clears his throat. 

“Park today,” she repeats, this time a question. 

Harry pats her on the bum. “Go get dressed.” 

She squeals happily and runs out of the room. 

“No running,” Harry hollers after her. 

“What’s on the agenda today?” Louis asks, looking down at Tessa while she tries to eat his fingers. “Those are not for mouths,” Louis tells her before Harry can reply. She looks up at him with her big, green eyes, and his chest tightens with happiness. 

“Not your mouth at least,” Harry says, eyes twinkling. 

Louis shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“It’s been four days,” Harry whines. “I feel like I’m going into heat.” 

He chokes out a laugh. “Oh, my God, calm down. We’ve gone significantly longer. And what do you even mean four days? Yesterday I—” 

Harry presses his hands over Tessa’s ears. “I need you to fuck me,” he says. 

Louis’ mouth goes dry. 

“What’s the plan for today?” he repeats after a moment. 

Harry smiles. “Take them to the park, wear them out. Send them off with Liam and Zayn at one o’clock and then we have the whole evening to ourselves.” 

“Sounds good.” 

Lips press to his forehead. “Go get dressed,” Harry teases, poking him in his bare chest. “You’re distracting.” 

✰✰✰

It’s nearly eleven o’clock by the time they make it out of the house. The park by their house is private enough Louis has stopped feeling paranoid they’re going to be bombarded by paparazzi. He still does a cursory glance around to make sure there’s not a group of teens hiding in wait. They’ve been out for awhile now, but they still make headlines when they’re spotted together. 

He catches himself doing all of this automatically, just as he had this morning when he helped Juliet get dressed while Harry changed Tessa’s diaper. There’s a moment where he has to remind himself _again_ that he’s in a different universe, that he doesn’t belong here. 

It’s unsettling to look at this Harry, who looks so much like the Harry from his universe, and see him interact with kids — _their_ kids. 

“Everything okay?” Harry asks, so in tune with Louis’ every shift in mood. 

Louis nods and slides his gaze to check on Juliet. She’s waving at him from the top of the slide. 

“Yeah,” he says as he waves back. He doesn’t have time to let the panic and grief take him now, not like he did in other universes — not now with Harry so close and kids to be looking after. He’ll worry about it later. 

He lets the universe take a firm grip on him again. 

✰✰✰

They spend an hour at the park. Louis pushes both Juliet and Tessa on the swings — Tess giggling happily in the one for babies while Juliet pleads for him to push her _higher, Papa, higher_. Harry has made himself comfortable on the blanket they laid out in the sun, talking to a group of moms. 

Later, Tessa gets sand in her diaper. Juliet scrapes her knees on the rocks when she falls trying to go _up_ the slide after Louis told her not to. 

He can see the tears coming from a mile away, and he wordlessly meets Harry’s gaze. Harry nods without either having to say anything, a silent agreement that it’s time to go home. 

Sure enough, before they’ve even made it to the car, Juliet starts crying about how she’s _dying_ — _blood, Daddy, there’s blood_. Louis cleans up the scape with the kit in the car, ever thankful Harry is always prepared for any disaster. While Harry puts Tessa in her car seat, Louis puts a bandaid over Juliet’s knee and kisses it. 

“All better?” Juliet nods. “What do we do next time Papa tells you not to do something?” 

“Listen,” she says around her thumb. She yawns unhappily. 

Predictably, both of them are asleep before they’ve even left the parking lot. 

“Well, that went well, I think.” 

Harry nods, not looking away from the road. “Could have been much worse. Now they’ll sleep for an hour, Liam will come by to pick them up after lunch, and by the time they’re back home after dinner, it’ll almost be time for bed.” 

✰✰✰

The doorbell rings just as they’re finishing lunch. Harry is wiping peanut butter off of Juliet’s face, and Louis is at the sink washing the dishes. 

Juliet screams bloody murder and high tails it for the door. “ _Juliet_ ,” Harry admonishes, following her. “No screaming in the house.” 

A moment later, Louis hears the front door open, and then, “ _Uncle Zaynie_ ,” Juliet screams, followed by Harry getting onto her again. And then, quieter, “Uncle Leeyum.” 

Not understanding why at first, Louis feels his blood go cold. 

He has to shift through his memories, through this Louis’ memories, before he understands. 

Of course Zayn had still left the band — Harry and Louis officially dating hadn’t changed anything on that front. And while this Louis and Zayn are cordial, it's a far cry from how they were before. Louis knows, on his end at least, a lot of his politeness comes from not wanting to make it difficult on the rest of the boys. 

Louis waits at the kitchen sink, taking his time washing the plate in his hand. He listens for the door shutting, but Harry and Liam are still talking. 

“Hey.” Zayn’s voice comes from behind him. Louis doesn’t turn around. 

He clears his throat. “Hey. How’s it going?” 

“I think we should talk.” 

“Talk about what?” 

He doesn’t have to turn around to know the look Zayn is giving him. 

“Lou.” 

Louis sighs. He doesn’t know why they have to do this _now_ and not yesterday or literally anytime Louis is _not in this body_. He’s going to have a word with his fairy godmother the next time he sees her — this whole thing with Harry is bad enough, but now she wants to bring Zayn into it too? Not cool. 

He takes a seat at the table, clasps his hands together in front of him. “Well,” he gestures vaguely, “go ahead. Say what you want to say.” 

Waiting for an accusation or a pisspoor explanation, the “I’m sorry” is the last thing he’s expecting. 

“What?” he says, thinking he must have heard wrong. 

“I’m sorry,” Zayn repeats. “I don’t regret leaving. I should have done it sooner than I did, but I _am_ sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” 

“I—” Louis starts. 

Zayn shakes his head. “I’m not done. I’m sorry for ignoring you. It was a shitty thing to do, but I wasn’t in a good place then. And I knew that if you asked me to come back to the band, I would have. And I couldn’t. It would have killed me, Louis, but I would have done it for you. I should have told you sooner.” He clears his throat. “I should have apologized sooner, I know. I just want you to know how sorry I am for everything.” 

Louis opens his mouth, then closes it. He has no idea what to say to that. Zayn gives him time, doesn’t push him, but doesn’t stand up from the table either. It’s oddly quiet — he can’t hear the kids or Harry and Liam anymore. 

“Okay,” Louis finally says after minutes or hours, he doesn’t know. “I mean — thank you, and I’m sorry, too. I did a lot of shitty things and probably didn’t make it any easier on you. I don’t know how to forgive you yet,” he says, “but I’m trying. Well, I _will_ try,” he amends. 

Zayn nods once. “Thank you. It would really suck to not have you around. Especially since we’re going to be having a baby.” 

Louis chokes. “What?” 

He nods again, a smile brightening his face. “Yeah, we got approved yesterday. We’re on the list for adoption. Just waiting for the right kid.” 

“Holy shit.” He’s surprised to find he’s almost near tears. He looks up to see Harry and Liam entering the room. Harry’s eyes are watery, and he’s smiling. Liam is bouncing Juliet on his hip. 

“Uncle Liam and Uncle Zayn are gonna have a baby! I’m gonna have a cousin!” Juliet says. 

“Yeah you are,” Harry says and pulls Louis out of his chair. He tucks Louis into his side. Juliet grabs onto him and Liam grabs onto Zayn and they hug each other tightly, Zayn’s arm wrapped around Louis’ waist. 

“Dammit, where’s Niall? He’s gonna be so pissed,” Louis says through his tears. 

“I’ll FaceTime him,” Zayn says, pulling out his phone with his free hand. Liam kisses the top of his head and then kisses the top of Louis’ head too. Louis swats at him, but Liam just grins happily. 

“What am I missing out on? Was it date night, you fuckers, why didn’t anyone tell me?” 

Harry shakes his head. “Babysitting night. You can have dibs next.” 

“Oh good, it’s been too long since I’ve seen the little terrors.” 

“Uncle Ni!” Juliet shrieks. Harry doesn’t get on to her for once. “Uncle Liam and Uncle Zayn are gonna have a baby!” 

Niall freezes so suddenly Louis thinks for a moment the connection has gone bad. 

“Wait, really?” he asks. “You’re not — You’re gonna have a kid?” 

Liam nods, eyes bright with tears. “Yeah!” 

“Holy shit, mate. I’m so happy.” 

Harry presses his lips to Louis’ forehead, and Louis pulls himself closer into the circle of his friends’ arms. “Me, too,” he says. “Me, too.” 

✰✰✰

Harry is on him the second Liam, Zayn and the kids are out the door. 

“Can you wait till we get to the bedroom at least?” Louis laughs. 

Harry shakes his head and falls backwards onto the couch, pulling Louis on top of him. “Nope. Need you now.” 

✰✰✰

Forty five minutes and three orgasms between them later, they’ve finally made it to the bedroom. Harry is starfished on the bed, finally sated. Louis sits between his legs and draws patterns on his naked thigh. 

“God, we just get better and better at that,” Harry says. 

Louis snorts. “Eight years ago I could’ve made you come twice as much in half as much time.” 

Harry rolls his head from side to side, but he’s grinning. “No, I like it when you don’t let me come straight away. You’re good at that.” He sits up, trapping Louis between his legs. “Your recovery time, on the other hand, is getting awful, old man.” 

They _are_ older, Louis had realized this morning when he’d looked in the mirror. His temples are more flecked with gray and the lines around his eyes are more prominent. Harry still doesn’t look a day over twenty-four; Louis doesn’t know how he does it. 

He rolls his shoulders and scoffs. “Think that says more about your ability to turn me on than anything,” Louis teases. 

“Is that a challenge?” Without waiting for an answer, Harry pushes him down on the bed and climbs on top of him. 

Louis hums happily, carding his hand through his boy’s curls. Harry’s so beautiful, looking well-rested and bright eyed. He’s gorgeous all the time, but there’s something about him like this that has Louis’ breath catching in his throat. 

Harry gets busy kissing all over Louis’ chest, down his torso to his hips. He’s making comments Louis can’t focus on. One of Harry’s hands is on Louis’ chest, his wedding ring a sparkling diamond in the shape of a snowflake — or, as Louis insists, a flower. There’s a simple band on his own ring finger, partially covering up the 2. _Mine_ , he thinks, as he intertwines their fingers.

The thought stops him short. _I don’t belong here,_ he remembers, _this isn’t my universe, this isn’t_ mine. 

_It should’ve been like this_ , he thinks suddenly. _This is what we should’ve had_. His chest aches suddenly with the realization that he wants this; he wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything. Wants to wake up every morning curled around Harry. Wants his kids cannonballing onto his chest and syrupy sticky kisses on his cheeks. The fights and arguments and screaming and tears and running of bare feet down the hallway. He wants Harry by his side through it all, his partner, a ring on his finger. 

_Eight universes and you still think he doesn’t love you back_. 

_Back_. 

Louis sucks in a harsh breath and before he knows it, his eyes are burning with tears. 

Harry looks up at him, soft and fond. “That good already? I’ve barely even started.” 

He shakes his head, covering his face with his hands. _God_ , he wants to go home. But at the same time, he doesn’t. He wants to stay here with Harry, where Harry looks at him like _that_ , where Harry loves him. Loves him _back_. 

“Oh, God,” he gasps. 

Harry crawls back up his body. “What’s going on?” 

“Nothing,” he tries to assure. “It’s very good, I promise.” 

Harry grins. “I lo—”

Quick, Louis presses his hand to Harry’s mouth. The tears have spilled, tracking down his cheeks and over his chin. He can’t do this again. He _can’t_. He shakes his head at Harry’s expression. “I know what you’re going to say. I know.” He frees Harry’s mouth, cups his face instead. 

“Honey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” He wipes his tears away but fresh ones take their place. 

He shakes his head again, studying Harry’s face — so similar, but so different. “I love you,” he says, the words cracking him open. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. Baby, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?” 

“It was always you,” he says. “It’s always going to be you.” He clutches tightly to Harry’s shoulders. “I love you. I love you. God, I love you so much.” 


	11. After.

When Louis wakes up, he’s in a hotel room. 

It takes a minute — a minute in which he’s sure he’s in another universe, that Harry is about to walk in and start telling him how much he loves him — to place where exactly he is. It’s the hotel room he was staying at, the one he came back to after his fairy godmother kissed him. His suitcase is on the floor, clothes spilling out of it. His shoes are at the end of the bed, and he’s still wearing the outfit he went to the bar in. His phone is beside him, the battery almost dead. 

He doesn’t know what he expects, to have his phone overloaded with unread messages and missed calls, to see that he’s been gone for weeks, months even. But according to the date, it’s the next day, three o’clock in the afternoon. 

Maybe he wasn’t even gone to begin with. 

He takes a moment to breathe, hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. 

_Was it even real?_

He unlocks his phone. It’s open to his text thread with Harry. 

_It’s didn’t mean anything_

_She kissed me_

_I didn’t kiss her_

_Promise_

He had sent one after the other. 

Harry had replied with a series of question marks and then _What are you talking about?_ And then, time stamped thirty minutes later: _Hey it’s okay. I know_. Which leads Louis to believe someone must have taken a picture or video. It’s probably all over the internet by now. Louis’ new mystery girl. 

Louis knows he needs to call Harry, needs to talk to him, hear his voice. The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach, but the idea of _not_ telling him, of pretending nothing has changed, is much, much worse. There’s an ache in his chest; he misses Harry more violently than he’s ever felt anything before. He needs to see him. _His_ Harry. 

_Eight universes and you still think he doesn’t love you back_. 

What if he doesn’t? 

He shakes the thought off. He can’t think like that. 

He exits out of the messenger app and scrolls through his contacts. He stops on one and, without letting himself think it through, presses call. 

“‘Lo?” comes the greeting after three rings. 

Louis squeezes his eyes shut. “Hey. It’s me.” 

The silence lasts for so long, Louis thinks about hanging up multiple times. 

Zayn says, “I should stop betting against Harry,” sounding amused. 

That — that’s not what Louis had been expecting at all. Quite frankly, he didn’t even expect Zayn to answer, or that he would hang up as soon as he recognized Louis’ voice. 

“What?” 

Zayn sighs across the line. “He said you’d call eventually, said I needed to give you time.” 

Louis hadn’t even known Harry still kept in touch with Zayn. He tells Zayn as much. 

“He called to yell at me that first time,” Zayn says. “On your behalf, or maybe about you,” he amends. 

“That— for me?” 

“He’s quite protective over you, you know?” 

Louis shakes his head. “I thought… I didn’t think you’d want me to call,” he says, honestly. 

“I didn’t,” Zayn confirms. “Not at first and not for a long time. But we’re going on ten years, Lou, and everything — all the drama — seems kind of stupid now.” 

Louis stares up at the ceiling, remembers what other universe Zayn had told him. “I’m…. I’m sorry. I did and said some stupid shit. I was — you leaving really hurt,” he tells him. “And at the time, I didn’t care why you did it. I didn’t care that you _needed_ to do it. It was selfish, but you just _left_ , without even saying anything. And that…. you broke my heart.” 

Zayn doesn’t answer for a long while, but Louis feels more confident he’s not about to be hung up on. 

“I tried,” Zayn says. “I didn’t know how to. I didn’t even know what was going on with me, really. I just knew I needed to get out, and I was worried if I tried to talk to you about it, you’d convince me to stay. And I couldn’t do that. I am sorry, for the record. I’m sorry I hurt you.” 

Louis closes his eyes. “Are you… are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m seeing someone. A therapist. She helps a lot. It’s a day to day thing. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to how it was, as much as I miss the four of you. I don’t think I can do that again. But, I’m making music still and that helps. And Liam helps, when I let him.” 

“Oh good.” He lets out a breath of relief. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, babes.” 

Louis smiles at the familiar endearment. 

“Are _you_ okay?” 

He laughs humorlessly. “If you had asked me that yesterday, I would have said _yes I’m great_.” 

“But now?” 

“Now?” He contemplates how much to tell him. Thinks, _fuck it_. It’s _Zayn_. “I think I’m in love with Harry,” he says. “Actually, there’s no _maybe_ about it. I’m definitely in love with him.” 

Zayn actually snorts. What the fuck? “I’m glad you finally figured it out.” 

“What? You _knew_?” 

Zayn laughs. “Babe, I think everyone knows.” 

Louis frowns at that, pausing. “What about…” He clears his throat. “Does Harry know?” 

“Wait, you haven’t told him yet?” 

“No, you’re actually the first person I’ve said it out loud to.” _In this universe, at least_. 

“What the fuck, call _him_. What are you doing on the phone with me?” 

“Oi! I thought we were having a moment.” 

Zayn laughs. “Go tell him, _please_. Ten years in the making, what the fuck.” 

“Hey, wait.” He sighs. “What if he doesn’t love me?” 

“For fuck’s sake. I’m hanging up on you.” 

✰✰✰

Louis should have thought this through. He should have waited instead of just dropping in on Harry unannounced, but he hadn’t been thinking. He’d gotten off the phone with Zayn and immediately booked a flight. He knew Harry was in L.A., so he got on a plane. 

Now he’s standing in Harry’s dressing room — it had been surprisingly easy to get in; he’s significantly less impressed with Harry for doing it all the time. There are other people hanging out, because of course there are; it’s Harry fucking Styles’ dressing room. And Louis realizes he’s never done this before. It’s always been Harry searching Louis out, calling him, texting him, sneaking into his dressing and hotel rooms, surprising him. 

Harry looks so shocked and caught off guard that Louis can’t even think outside of _fuck fuck fuck_. 

“Louis.” It comes out a question, concern etched on his face, because Louis _doesn’t do this_. “What’s going on? What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” 

Louis opens his mouth, but there are no words. He didn’t plan on having to do this in front of other people. He didn’t plan anything at all. Everyone is staring at him. He used to be able to charm a room in two seconds flat, but his vocal chords have up and left him. 

“Are you okay?” Harry is sitting up, but he doesn’t come any closer. He wouldn’t. Not with people around. God, Louis is an _idiot_. “You look… you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

_Not far off_ , he thinks. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “I need to talk to you.” 

He’s vaguely aware of the room clearing, one guy mumbling something like _we’ll give you two some privacy_. Louis wonders if what he’s about to confess is written all over his face. He wants to throw up. 

Harry pats the space beside him now that they’re alone. “C’mere, babe, sit down. You’re scaring me.” 

When Louis stays put, Harry starts to get up, but Louis shakes his head. He needs his space; he needs room to breathe. 

Harry settles back down again hesitantly. “What’s going on?” 

“I don’t… I don’t really know where to start. Something weird happened to me. The woman… the one who kissed me, she—” He laughs once without humor. “She said she wanted to help me find my soulmate. She called herself my fairy godmother.” He clears his throat. “She did something to me. I woke up and I was somewhere else. I was in a different universe. I thought I was dreaming, and maybe I was. You know the multiverse? The theory that there are an infinite amount of universes and an infinite amount of you’s and me’s? Parallel universes, alternate universes, I don’t know. If you can think of it, there’s a universe where it exists?” 

Harry blinks, looking completely dumbfounded. Louis can’t blame him. It happened to _him_ and he’s still having a hard time wrapping his head around it all. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess I’ve heard of it,” he says. 

“She sent me there, to a bunch of them. I kept becoming different Louis’s except I was still myself.” He covers his face with his hand. “I knew who I was but I was also them, a different Louis — sort of.” 

“Lou, baby, slow down. I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” 

He drops his hands. “Me neither, really. It’s not important, though. The point is, in every single universe she sent me to, you were there. We were together. Me and you, you and I… as a couple.” His words have been coming out fast, a jumbled mess. He takes a breath, steading himself. The next sentence comes out soft and slow. “We were in love in every other universe.”

He can’t look at Harry, can’t see his reaction. He looks at the wall instead, blinking rapidly to keep from crying. 

“And it took me like nine different universes — I kept getting thrown from one universe to the next, kept listening to you tell me you loved me, that you were _in love_ with me. I thought it was some cruel hallucination. It took me all that time to finally understand the fucking point of it all.” He closes his eyes, feels tears fall over his cheeks. “It took me all that time to realize I love you.” 

_There_. He’s said it. It’s all out there. It feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. 

He opens his eyes and looks at Harry. 

Harry’s eyes are wide, mouth slightly gaped in surprise. 

“I— I’m sorry. What, did… you — you _love_ me?” 

Louis realizes he just dropped a bombshell on him — a very confusing bombshell at that — but in his mind, when he let himself picture this moment all the way here, he had imagined Harry jumping up, saying _I love you, too_ and then — credits roll, they ride into the sunset, they live happily ever after. 

“Are you…. you’re not serious, right?” Harry lets out a laugh, nearly hysterical sounding. 

Louis feels it like a blade to his chest. 

Harry is staring at him like he’s never seen him before, and Louis feels so stupid. He’s gone and ruined everything. 

_Eight universes and you still think he doesn’t love you back_. 

After his conversation with Zayn, it hadn’t really occurred to Louis that Harry might not love him back. He’s so used to hearing him say it in every other universe. And now — 

_Nine universes. Infinite. In every universe but ours._

“Oh, my God. I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have said anything.” He covers his mouth to try and hold back the sob threatening to wreck through his body. He has to hold it together. “Pretend I didn’t say anything. I’m going to go.” 

“No, Louis. Wait!” Harry calls, standing up, but Louis is faster; he’s already out the door. 

✰✰✰

The first thing he does, other than hail a cab back to the airport, is text Zayn. 

_You were wrong, by the way. Telling Harry was a TERRIBLE idea._

And then he turns off his phone. 

✰✰✰

He manages to hide out in London for a few days, ignoring the outside world and only venturing out long enough for groceries and to get Clifford his exercise. 

Keeping his phone turned off is not a possibility; he has a job, responsibilities, and people who need to keep in touch with him. The first thing he did when he got home was plug it in and then ate lunch, took Cliff out, and generally avoided it for a good three hours. 

When he turns it on, it nearly freezes due to the influx of notifications. He leaves it be for another hour, charging in his room, before he looks at any of them. 

He can’t avoid it forever, as much as he’d like to. He goes through his missed calls first. In the approximately 12 hours since he walked away from Harry, Harry has called him no less than 27 times. The last only thirty minutes earlier. Zayn has called him twice. Liam has called him three times. Even Niall has called him. He also has — presumably — unrelated calls from his sisters that he feels guilty for missing. He texts them back to make sure there hasn’t been any emergencies he’s missed. 

Then he deals with the text messages. 

Zayn had replied to Louis’ text almost immediately with a series of question marks and _what the fuck_. Then twenty minutes later: 

_Answer your fucking phone_

_What happened?_

_I’m going to call Liam if you don’t answer_

_Just let me know you’re okay_

Louis texts him back, _I’m fine. I’ll explain later._

Liam has texted him multiple times, too, but it’s clear from those messages Zayn hasn’t explained the situation. 

_Everything okay?_

_Zayn’s worried. Call me_

And then there’s the group chat, which Louis should have left ages ago like he keeps threatening to. 

Harry: _somebody call Louis please_

Harry: _and tell him to call me back_

Harry: _or at least tell me he’s alright_

Niall: _what’s going on?_

Harry: _I’m not sure_

Zayn: _I thought he talked to you_

Harry: _did he talk to you????????_

Harry: _Zayn!!!!!!!!!!!_

Louis scrolls past them after that, not reading until he gets to the newest message, sent from Zayn a minute ago. 

_He texted me. He said he’s fine._

He goes through the rest of his messages: a new one from Zayn asking Louis to call him again; a couple from his sisters saying they just wanted to talk — Louis makes a note to call them back soon. Niall has texted a few times on the guise of “checking in.” Louis is very aware that outside of himself, the person Harry’s closest to out of the five of them is Niall; Louis wonders what all Niall knows, how much Harry would have told him. 

Most of his texts are from Harry. 

_Please answer your phone._

_Lou_

_I’m sorry_

_Come on, please_

_We need to talk_

_I don’t want to do this over text message_

_Just call me_

_I’m so sorry._

There’s a bunch more of the same variation until: _Just let me know you’re okay please_ and, less than a minute ago, _Please talk to me_. 

Louis puts his phone aside and doesn’t look at it for the rest of the night. 

✰✰✰

As much as he would love to, Louis can’t hide out in his flat forever. Four days later, he’s back at the airport, heading _back_ to California, this time for promo. His manager is with him, but he hadn’t asked Lottie if she wanted to tag along this time. They’ve talked — he’s talked to all his sisters — but he hasn’t been able to tell her what happened. He wouldn’t even know how to have that conversation. He hasn’t been able to talk to anyone else about it either. Zayn isn’t buying his _I’m fine_ , but he’s leaving him alone for the time being. No one else knows what happened, presumably, and he’d like to keep it that way. He’d like to pretend it didn’t happen at all. Maybe if he keeps up the mantra, he’ll forget everything. 

He tries to ignore the persistent park of him that yearns to be back in that universe where Harry actually loved him back. He wonders what’s so different about them, what changed. 

Harry has stopped texting him, but he still calls at least once a day, sometimes at such random hours, Louis almost answers out of habit. He did actually answer once, when Harry called in the middle of the night; Louis had been half-asleep, answering without even checking to see who it was. All Harry had managed to get out was, “ _Louis_ , please don’t hang up,” before Louis had panicked and done just that. He’s not ready to hear Harry say, “It’s okay, we can still be friends.” 

They’ve just stepped out of the cab, when he hears a familiar voice call his name. 

He freezes, breath caught in his throat, and squeezes his eyes shut. This can’t be real; this can’t be happening. He should have seen this coming, honestly. Damn Harry and his stubborn arse. He can never let things go. 

He pulls his bag out of the backseat and pays the cabbie. He waits till he’s driven off to turn around. 

Harry is standing maybe ten feet away. 

There’s not a lot of people around, but they’re not alone either. Louis’ manager is waiting for him by the entrance, and there’s sure to be paparazzi, or at least someone’s camera catching all of this. They haven’t been photographed together in actual years, and now that’s gone straight out the window. 

He can’t find his voice. 

It’s been less than a week, but Harry looks awful. He’s got bags under his red eyes, looking like he hasn’t slept at all in the past five days. Louis’ heart still thumps in his chest. He’s so beautiful. He’s so beautiful it _hurts_. It’s actually painful to stand here and look at him in his washed out jeans and gaudy jumper. Louis loves him so much; he doesn’t know how he didn’t realize it before. 

He can’t go back to the way things were before. He thought he could do it, but he can’t even stand here and act like he’s not hopelessly in love with his best friend. 

This might be the last time he ever sees Harry. It feels like a knife to the gut, sharp pain spreading through his stomach. There’s a strong possibility he might actually throw up. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, his voice is scratchy like he’s been yelling. “I’ve been calling you and texting you and you haven’t answered me. I didn’t know what else to do, okay? I’ll leave. We don’t have to do this here. I just… promise me you’ll call me, or text me back at least? I need you to stop ignoring me.” 

Someone, a fan, screams Harry’s name, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut. He’s so tired. If this is going to be the last time he sees Harry — 

“I don’t care,” Louis tells him. He clears his throat. “I mean, I don’t care if they see us together.” 

Harry relaxes incrementally, then starts to pull himself to his full height. He wonders how often Harry’s practiced the speech Louis is about to get. 

“I’m sorry about my reaction the other day,” he starts. “I was… I was really confused.” 

“I know, Harry,” he interrupts. “I was confused, too. I didn’t mean to make you question everything. You don’t have to worry about—”

“That’s not what I mean,” Harry interrupts right back. “I was confused because, well, because of the whole alternate universe thing, whatever that was, but also because,” he looks away, taking in the people around them, and then back again, suddenly shy. “I was confused because this thing between us has always meant more to me than it has to you. I’ve gotten used to that. I thought, after all these years, I was finally okay. We were doing good, yeah? Some of you is better than none of you. That’s what I told myself. But then you… you said those things, and it was just a lot to take in. I was,” he huffs, runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair, “I was maybe a little angry, because I’ve been waiting for almost ten years now to hear you say those words and… and I didn’t know if you meant them the way I wanted you to. You’ve said you love me before, I didn’t know this time was supposed to be different.” 

Louis struggles to find his voice. “What—” He swallows and tries again when it comes out too quiet. “What do you mean, it means more to you?” 

Harry studies him for a long moment. “You really don’t know.” It’s not a question. His voice is quiet, and he closes his eyes for what feels like eons. When he opens them, he looks exhausted and resigned. He’s starting to slump again; it makes him look broader than he actually is, all hunched in on himself. “You’re so fucking blind, Louis. Everyone told me you just didn’t know, but I never believed it. I thought… I thought _for sure_ you had to know. You know me better than anyone, how could you not know? I thought you were just…” His voice trails off. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, honestly,” Louis says. He doesn’t let himself hope. 

_Every universe but ours_. 

Harry laughs once, loud but humorlessly. Security has done a decent enough job keeping everyone away, Louis doesn’t think they can hear their conversation, but someone is bound to catch Harry’s laugh, or at least the frustrated look on his face. The internet is going to have a field day. _Former band members duel it out at the airport_. _Larry Stylinson over for good?_

“Well, let’s see. Where do I start? I've been in love with you since we were on X-Factor, quite possibly since the moment you walked into the bathroom. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off of you since day one. Every time you walk into the room, it’s like the rest of the world ceases to exist. It’s fucking cheesy, but it’s true. Everyone watched me fall all over myself for you, but somehow _you_ , the person who is supposed to be my best friend, missed it. I was always so jealous of anyone who got your attention, who got to put their hands on you, it made me sick to my stomach. It _still_ makes me sick to my stomach. I wrote dozens of songs for you. I played _If I Could Fly_ for you every time you came to one of my shows. And when you started dating again—” He looks down, shakes his head minutely. “You started dating, and I was so heartbroken, I went and played _Girl Crush_ like some lovesick idiot.” He covers his face with his hands, and Louis has a feeling he might be crying. 

It’s a lot of information to get in a short amount of time. There’s so much to process, but one thing in particular sticks out above the rest. 

Louis can’t even think outside of _in love in love in love_. He reckons he should bring that up; it’s a pretty vital piece of information, and Louis doesn’t want to talk about anything else _for the rest of his life_. 

When he opens his mouth, though, what comes out is, “I thought _If I Could Fly_ was… platonic, or well, as platonic as we get.” 

Harry drops his hands. He’s not crying, but his eyes look watery. “Platonic,” he repeats, tone flat. His voice is rough, even deeper than usual. He hasn’t been screaming, Louis realizes at once, he’s been crying. “I think I might give up everything, just ask me to.” He frowns. “Pay attention, I hope that you listen, ‘cause I let my guard down.” He shakes his head, looks away. “I guess you weren’t paying attention.” He covers his face again. “Platonic,” he repeats again, louder. “I’m missing half of me when we’re apart,” he very nearly sings. 

_Half of me_ , Louis thinks. He’s having a hard time wrapping his head around it all. 

“You wrote me other songs?” 

“Sweet creature,” Harry sings without hesitation, voice soft. “Wherever I go, you bring me home. When I run out of road, you bring me home.” 

Louis opens his mouth and then closes it. 

“I get so lost inside your eyes,” Harry quotes, no longer singing. “Would you believe it? You don’t have to say you love me. You don’t have to say nothing. You don’t have to say you’re mine. _Honey_ , I’d walk through fire for you. Just let me adore you.” It’s almost a plea, the way he says it, like he’s honestly asking Louis to let Harry adore him. 

Finally, he says, “You’re in love with me?” 

Harry straightens, assurance absolutely dripping from his voice when he says, “Yes.” 

Harry loves Louis. In every universe. It settles into his bones, unpacks and sets up camp in his heart. It thrums through his veins. Harry loves Louis. _His_ Harry. In every universe. 

_Soulmate_ , he thinks. 

“All this time?” 

“Before I even knew what it meant.” 

“To be fair,” Louis says, “it took me like ten other universes to realize I’ve been in love with you, for God knows how long.” 

As much as he’s tried not to, he’s thought a lot about it these past few days. He doesn’t think he could ever pinpoint an exact moment where he fell in love; he did a good job hiding it, even from himself. He remembers the X-Factor days and how instantaneously they clicked. Louis had been so gone for Harry, but he hadn’t really understood it at the time. He’d been quite gone for all the boys. Everything had been so overwhelming. 

He remembers wanting to kiss him, wanting to put his hands all over him. And then they’d slept together and something had changed. Backstage, hidden away, with his hand down Harry’s pants, Harry had said, _asked_ , “This is just a sex thing?” Something had shifted. Because Louis knows, like in that last universe, he had wanted to say no. But he’d been terrified. _Some of you is better than none of you_ ; Louis had shoved that part of him so deep down he had forgotten it even existed. 

All the times Harry had been linked to some model or singer, anger had coursed through him. He’d wanted to shake everyone, scream _he’s gay_ , but he thinks, underneath that, he’d wanted to scream _he’s mine, you can’t have him_. The rumors, when they were apart, about Harry with other boys had been even worse. They’d been whispers, not even substantial enough to make a headline, but it hadn’t mattered to Louis. Rumors were enough. He had told himself it was because sex with Harry was better than sex with anyone else, that he just missed him, but he’d been sick with jealousy. At one point, he hadn’t been able to leave his bed; he probably should have known then. But instead, he had found someone to date.

_“You’re telling me you didn’t start dating Anna just to make Harry jealous?”_

He _had_ dated Anna to make Harry jealous, he realizes now. And he had done such a good job Harry wouldn’t even _talk_ to him. 

Louis hates himself for that a little bit, doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for hurting him.

Harry slumps. This time out of relief, Louis thinks. When Harry opens his eyes, they’re bright and teary and yep, he’s definitely crying now. 

“Okay, okay. You love me and I love you.” 

How very, very strange, and yet, not strange at all. He doesn’t know what to say. He just continues staring at Harry, letting all the puzzle pieces click into place. 

He’s thinking he would very much like to kiss Harry, when someone taps him on the shoulder. Louis turns around to his manager, gesturing to his watch. 

“We need to go, Louis, we’re going to miss our flight.” 

Louis frowns. He’d forgotten they weren’t in their own little world, that time had continued moving on around them. There’s still people standing around watching them, looking excited and bewildered. It’s probably not a good idea for Harry and him to have their first real kiss in front of a bunch of people and cameras. 

“You have to go,” Harry says. Louis nods. “Can I… can I hug you?” 

Louis doesn’t answer; he just drops his bag and closes the distance between them. Harry fits in his arms like he was made to. And he was. In every universe, this was where he belonged. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I land,” Louis tells him, face pressed in close. He can’t resist burying his hand in Harry’s curls. “We’ll… we’ll make it work.” 

Harry just nods, doesn’t let go. 

“I love you.” 

Harry laughs, a happy, happy sound. “I love you, too, so much. You have no idea.” Louis doesn’t, but he’s excited to find out. 

When he pulls back, Harry’s still crying a little. Without thinking, Louis runs his thumb over Harry’s cheek, catching the tears. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

“They’re mostly happy tears. A little sad because I have to watch you walk away from me again,” he confesses. 

_God._ Louis doesn’t want to leave. He wants to hide Harry in his carryon. How is he supposed to leave him now? 

“This time I’m coming back. I’m coming back to you, okay? You bring me home, too.” 

Harry pulls him into a bone crushing hug. “I wish I could kiss you,” he whispers into Louis’ ear. He has a flashback to all the times Harry has pulled him aside over the years to whisper in his ear. Every once in a while he’d say something like, “wish I could kiss you,” and Louis never really thought anything of it at the time. Now it all makes sense. Harry’s been telling Louis how he feels all along. 

Louis pulls back. If he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to start crying, too, and then Harry will start crying again, and Louis will definitely miss his flight. 

“Later. When I get back. I’ll take you on a proper date, okay? We have a lot to talk about.” _A lot for me to apologize about_ , he thinks. 

Harry smiles a soft, sweet thing, only a hint of dimples, and nods. “Love you,” he mouths. 

Louis walks backwards, watching him until he’s in danger of running into the door and has to turn around. 

✰✰✰

When he gets to his hotel room that night and has the free time, Louis does some research. He starts by going through all their old videos, starting with their X-Factor days and moving up through the years, trying to pinpoint a moment, to see what apparently the rest of the world has known all along. It would be easy to look at a situation and think, “Oh, it’s sexual tension,” because he knows that is indeed a part of it, but there’s more to it. He watches the way Harry’s eyes linger on him, the way younger him couldn’t keep his hands off Harry. 

He listens to every song Harry has ever written and performed. He somehow manages not to throw his iPad across the room while watching the video of Harry singing _Girl Crush_ at The BBC. He watches performances of _If I Could Fly_ and _Sweet Creature_ over and over and over again, from every angle imaginable. He watches Harry look up and smile at him; even though no one was supposed to know Louis was there; Harry made it obvious he was. Louis never cared; it was a nice _fuck you_ to their publicity teams. But Harry looks so fond, so in love, Louis doesn’t know how he missed it. 

By the time he’s done, it’s been two days, it’s three a.m., his eyes are red from crying, and he hates himself a little bit more than he did. 

He calls Harry in a full on strop. 

“Lou?” 

He doesn’t know what he means to say until the words, “I am the worst person alive,” come out of his mouth, hushed like a confession. 

“What? No, you’re not. What brought this on?” 

“You’ve been in love with me for almost ten years, and I never even noticed.” 

Harry sighs. 

“I’m an asshole. What’s wrong with me? You’re my best friend. How did I not know? It wasn’t like you were being subtle. And I just — strung you along. Why did you wait for me? Why did you even bother talking to me?” 

“Honey, you didn’t string me along. I never said anything.” 

“You might as well have,” Louis very nearly hollers. “I feel like an idiot. You fucking kissed your rings and then sang _Sweet Creature_. I was _there_.” 

“I didn’t know you were in love with me,” Harry points out. 

“ _I_ didn't even know I was in love with you. It’s not the same. I didn’t go and sing a song about.. about wanting her lips cause they taste like—”

Harry sighs again. “It doesn’t matter, Louis. We’re together now, yeah? That’s all that matters.” 

“How did you do it? I couldn’t even make it a day before I had to tell you.” 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a long time. “I don’t want to talk about this when you’re already upset.” 

“I’m so sorry. You know that, right? I am so sorry for hurting you.”

“I don’t hold it against you, okay? Yeah, maybe I was obvious, but I _didn’t say anything_. I never told you, and that’s on me. Sometimes it was really awful. It hurt a lot. I tried to move on so many times, but at the end of the day, having half of you was better than having all of someone else.” 

Louis closes his eyes, breathes through his tears. “Why do you love me?” he asks before he can chicken out. 

Harry huffs out a laugh. “It’s not really one thing, Lou. It’s… everything. Who you are, the way you are. Even after everything, you’re still the strongest person I know. You’re genuinely such a good person. You’re my hero. You’ll let anyone talk shit about you, but the _second_ someone insults your fans or _me_ or, fuck, any of the boys, they’re finished. You made me so comfortable, taught me how to love myself. You’re one of the funniest people I know. God, and you’re such an asshole sometimes. You drive me up the wall. And I love you. I love you when we’re fighting. I love you when we’re having mind blowing sex. I love you when I haven’t seen you in months and when my heart is breaking. It’s just _you_. I love you.” There’s a pause and then, “You still there?” 

“You’re such a fucking sap,” Louis says, because he’s crying, and he’s sure Harry can tell. 

“What did I say? Asshole.” 

Louis manages a weak laugh. “I love you, too, you know?” 

Harry hums happily. “I’ll never get tired of hearing it.” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out.” 

“It doesn’t matter. We’re here now.”

“I’m still sorry,” he says. “For hurting you.” 

“I forgive you.” 

Louis closes his eyes, soaks in the words. 

“I’ll see you in a week, yeah?” Harry says. “You still owe me that date.” 

✰✰✰

It’s supposed to be one week, but one week turns into two, and two weeks turns into a month. They talk every single day; it’s not enough, but they’re both busy promoting upcoming albums. 

“You couldn’t have waited to confess your love for me at a time we _didn’t_ have a full schedule?” Harry teases, but in all his appearances he seems happier than he’s been in a long time, and Louis takes a little pride in that. 

One day, when Harry mentions he hasn’t even heard Louis’ entire album yet, Louis sends it to him without thinking. He puts it out of his mind the rest of the day. He flies across the country, does some interviews, and when he gets to his hotel room that night, Harry calls him. 

_Psychic_ , Louis thinks, and answers the phone. 

He goes to tease him again, but Harry’s called him _in a rage_. 

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Harry says in greeting, sounding quiet seriously put off. 

_That bad?_ he wants to joke. “What did I do?” He’d been halfway to getting his pants off when Harry called, debating taking a shower. 

“Come so far from Princess Park,” Harry quotes. “How is this song not about me?” 

Louis hums thoughtfully. “Well, it _is_ about you. I thought that was obvious.” 

“I went to Amsterdam without you,” he continues. “I’m wasting my time when it was always you.” 

Louis frowns. “ _Also_ about you.” 

“You— You _honestly_ wrote these songs and just thought, what? I don’t understand, please explain them to me.” 

Louis doesn’t know what to say to that, but Harry doesn’t give him a chance to figure it out. 

“You’ve been in love with me this whole time, and you didn’t even realize it.” 

“I thought we already established that,” Louis says, relaxing at the realization that Harry’s not actually mad _at_ him. 

“You wrote songs about me,” is all Harry says, voice soft and fond now. 

“I’ve performed Habit before,” Louis points out. 

Harry just cusses into the phone for a solid minute; Louis is quite impressed honestly. 

When he’s done, his voice turns fond again. “I miss you.” 

“I know, babe. I miss you, too.” 

“Oh, no, not with the pet names.” 

Louis frowns. Does Harry realize who he’s talking to? He finally manages to get his pants off one handed. “What’s wrong with babe?” he asks, throwing said pants across the room. “I always call you babe.” 

“You call _everyone_ babe. You call everyone love, too, so don’t start on that either. Not anymore. I’m not everyone.” 

Louis smiles. “Sorry, darling.” 

Harry hums. “That’s a little better.” 

Louis’ grin widens. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

There’s no response this time, but Louis doesn’t need one to know Harry’s smiling. 

✰✰✰

“What do you think about ‘fucker’ for a term of endearment?” Louis asks over the phone a few days later. 

Lottie, sitting next to him, has her instagram app open to the camera, and he turns to her, sticking out his tongue before she takes a picture of the two of them. When Louis told her about making things Official **™** with Harry, her only response had been to roll her eyes and say, “It’s about damn time.” 

It had taken him a while to tell Liam, but when he did, Liam had said, “I owe you so many I told you so’s.” Zayn had just come right out and said, “See, I told you,” and Niall had sent about a million exclamation points and _IT’S ABOUT TIME TEN YEARS TOO LATE I LOVE YOU ALL WE’RE THE GAYEST BAND EVER_ to the group chat. 

“It’s a little on the nose,” Harry says now, good natured. 

“What about little shit? I’m partial to that one.” 

“Pretty sure you’re mixing us up; I’m not the little one in this relationship.” 

_Little shit indeed_ , Louis thinks, but also: _relationship_. He’s never going to get used to that. He has _butterflies_. 

“Getting to the real reason I called.” He clears his throat. “I can’t believe you called me your brother on SNL, you fucker.” 

Harry laughs for a solid half a minute. “What was I supposed to say? My brothers, Liam and Niall, and the love of my life, Louis Tomlinson.” 

“And then start serenading me on the piano, yes,” he says, smiling. _Love of my life. Love of my life._

Lottie snaps another photo of him, but he’s too distracted to care. 

“Did you watch the whole thing? I don’t know how to play the piano.” 

“That’s what makes it all the more impressive.” 

Harry just laughs again. It cuts off abruptly. “Hey, why is your sister sending me messages on instagram? Isn’t she with you?” 

Louis might get whiplash from how fast his head turns to look at her. “I don’t know. I’ll ask.” 

She shows him the picture she just took of him and subsequently sent to Harry. It’s of Louis, but she’s added about a dozen emojis around him, all of hearts or faces with hearts for eyes, a couple with blushing faces surrounded by hearts. Louis isn’t even looking at the camera. He’s looking off, his phone pressed to his ear. He’s smiling, and _fuck_ , he looks so in love. He really doesn’t know how he lied to himself for so long. 

“Shit. I miss you so much.” 

He guesses that means Harry’s looked at the photo. He pushes up from the couch to seek out a little more privacy, flipping Lottie off in the process just for good measure. 

“I miss you, too.” 

“When are you free? I need to see you.” 

Louis sighs. “Most of next week.” 

“That’s so far away,” Harry pouts. 

“I know. I’m sorry. I’m booked all this week, save for tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow?” 

Louis frowns. “Don’t you have to be in New York in two, three days from now?” 

“Don’t care. Doesn’t matter. I’ll be there tomorrow, okay?” 

Warmth curls inside his chest. “Okay.” 

“I hope you know, I’m going to tackle you when I see you. This is your warning. I’m going to tackle you, and I’m going to kiss you all over your stupidly beautiful face, and then we’re going to have sex in every single room of your flat.” 

“That’s quite the ambitious proposition. I have a lot of rooms.” 

“Listen, honey, I’ve barely touched myself in over a month. I might actually come just from kissing you.” 

Louis laughs. “You’re quite the romantic, you know?” 

“I love you,” Harry says, so happily. 

Louis sighs, content. “I love you, too.” 

✰✰✰

That night, Louis goes home and cleans his flat. It’s pretty ridiculous, he knows. Harry _knows_ him; he’s not expecting a spotless home all of a sudden. Louis can’t relax, though. He tries to lie down and get some sleep, but he ends up pacing, so he cleans instead. He hasn’t seen Harry since the airport, and now he’s going to be within touching distance in less than 24 hours, and they’re in love. 

He changes the sheets, finds all the candles he can and sets them around the bedroom, then puts them all back ‘cause he doesn’t want to look like he’s trying too hard. Then he changes his mind again. He keeps a couple out, the ones he _knows_ Harry is particularly fond of. 

Eventually he passes out due to sheer exhaustion, and the next morning he goes to the store, stocking up on all of Harry’s favorite foods. 

While he’s debating the different selections of fruit, it hits him again. They’re _in love_. 

He buys an entire watermelon and a bunch of strawberries, because fuck it all. They’re in love. 

He’s trying to juggle all the bags and the fucking watermelon so he can pull his keys out and unlock the door, when he realizes it’s already unlocked. Hesitantly, he pushes open the door with his foot, imagining all the different scenarios that could be waiting for him, ranging from particularly ambitious fans to one of his sisters making a surprise visit. Not that he wouldn’t be happy to see any of his sisters, but _Harry_. They’re in love. 

He somehow manages not to drop a single bag when he sees Harry standing in the middle of the foyer, frowning. 

“You weren’t here,” Harry says unnecessarily. He can’t have been waiting long; his bag is at his feet. 

“I am now,” Louis replies, also unnecessarily. “I didn’t know you’d be here so early.” He’s staring. He can’t look away. Harry’s here, in his apartment, within touching distance. And they’re in love. He can’t move. The watermelon is getting heavy; he thought it was funny at the time, but now he’s regretting everything that led to his arms being full of groceries instead of them being full of Harry. 

“I got on the earliest flight I could. There was a screaming baby next to me. I think it spit up on my pants.” 

“But now you’re here.” 

“Now I’m here,” Harry confirms. “Is that a watermelon?” 

Louis looks down at said green melon that’s using up all his muscle strength. It’s not even that big or heavy, he’s just been holding it for far too long. 

“I liked your song.” 

A slow grin spreads over Harry’s features, dimpled and perfect. “Baby, you’re the end of June,” he says. 

“I—” Louis falters. “Oh, fuck it all to hell.” 

He drops the groceries. The watermelon makes a very loud thump, but doesn’t break apart like he half expects it to. He’s too busy launching himself at Harry to care about the rest of the groceries, even though there were definitely eggs in one of those bags. Harry grabs at him, pulls him in until they’re chest to chest, Louis’ hands on whatever part of Harry he can reach.

They’re in love. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” Louis says. 

“Hi, sunshine. I bet your downstairs neighbors hate you right now.” 

“I don’t care. I was promised tackling and kissing and sex, and so far I’ve been the only one to do any tackling.” 

“Indeed,” Harry says and kisses him. 

It’s weird. It’s not weird, but it’s weird. They haven’t done a lot of kissing. Not like this and not because of some Pretty Woman agreement they made. It was unspoken; when they did kiss, it was only ever a means to an end. Louis kissed alternate universe Harry a lot more than he’s kissed real world Harry. 

It feels like their first kiss all over again. Then, Louis had pressed Harry into the mattress in a hotel room. Now, it’s slower, softer, not a kiss that has to lead to anything, like that one had. It’s definitely going to lead to something, eventually, Louis thinks, but they can also just do this. 

He frames Harry’s face, fingers sliding into his hair. Harry’s hands grip his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. 

Harry kisses him like a starving man, and he keeps kissing him. He doesn’t stop even when Louis needs to pull back for air. 

“We’ve got so much time to make up for,” Harry tells him, chasing his lips. 

“Hey,” Louis says, voice soft, carding a hand through Harry’s curls. “There’s no rush. We have the rest of our lives.” 

It’s out before he can second guess himself, but he doesn’t have a chance to worry about the implications of what he’s said; Harry’s breaking out into the biggest smile and reconnecting their lips. 

And so they kiss and they kiss and they kiss. Louis lifts him up, carries him through the flat till they get to the bedroom, with Harry grunting and wrapping his legs around Louis’ waist. Harry falls back onto the bed, and Louis crawls over him. They lie in bed, intertwined, kissing and kissing and kissing. 

Harry rolls them over, grinds down against him. “I want everything.” 

“My stamina is not what it used to be,” Louis jokes. 

Harry breathes out a laugh. “We’ll see about that.” He sucks a mark onto Louis’ neck, and Louis can’t help but arch into it, hissing a little when Harry bites at his skin. “Missed you so much,” Harry says against his lips, nipping at them. 

“I need to be inside you,” Louis tells him, feeling suddenly impatient with need. 

“Fuck.” Harry buries his face in Louis’ neck. 

He moves to roll over onto his back again, but Louis stops him. He answers his questioning look with, “Want you to ride me.” 

“Fuck,” Harry repeats. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s… please.” 

While Harry’s getting the lube, Louis moves up the bed, stepping out of his clothes and then leaning back against the pillows. Harry’s naked when he comes back to bed, and Louis runs his fingers up and over Harry’s torso. God, he missed this. It wasn’t the same. 

He flicks one of Harry’s nipples. 

Harry groans. “Don’t. I’m already so close.” 

Louis chuckles. “Whose stamina do we need to be worried about now?” 

“A month,” Harry tells him. “I haven’t properly gotten off in over a month.” 

“Yeah, you said that. How come?” 

Harry shrugs, doesn’t meet Louis’ gaze.

“Harry,” he prompts. 

He ducks his head, kisses Louis’ shoulder. “Missed you,” he says. “It’s not the same. I wanted you.” He presses the lube into Louis’ hand. “ _Want_ you.” 

Louis opens him up slowly, despite how impatient he’d felt moments ago. Fuck how little time they have together; Louis can’t rush this. He wants to savor every sound Harry makes, every look that passes over his face. The way his mouth drops open, the way he locks eyes with Louis, gripping his shoulders while he essentially rides Louis’ fingers. They’re in love, fuck. 

“Ready,” Harry says. “M’ready.” 

“Are you sure?” Louis teases, curling his fingers. 

Harry tightens his grip on Louis’ shoulders, digging his nails in. 

Louis slides a condom on. They’re both holding their breath as Harry slides down till they’re pressed flush together. 

“Fuck,” Harry breathes. Louis can’t help but agree. They’ve done this a hundred times, but it feels different now, new. 

Harry takes a moment to adjust before he starts moving. Louis lets him set the pace, choosing instead to run his hands over Harry’s body. He’s a sight. Flushed skin, hard cock, leaning back as he fucks himself on Louis’ cock. 

“You feel so good,” Louis tells him. “Never get enough of you like this.” 

Harry leans down, bracing himself on Louis’ shoulders, and connects their lips. It’s a dirty, messy kiss. Louis tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair and pulls. 

“Fuck,” Harry repeats. It might be the only thing he can say. 

Louis takes a moment to admire Harry’s body, his arms wrapped around Louis’ neck. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, awed. He runs his hands up Harry’s sides. 

Harry hides his face in Louis’ neck, and it takes Louis a full minute to realize he’s shaking because he’s giggling, not out of pleasure. 

“What, might I ask, is so funny?” 

There’s no response right away. Harry just shakes his head, gently laughing, before he sits up a little so he can lock eyes with Louis. “Just because we’re officially together now, you don’t have to change the way you treat me.” 

Louis frowns. “What are you talking about?” 

Harry shrugs, but starts moving again. “You never call me beautiful,” he says. “Not anymore.” 

“You know I’m attracted to you,” Louis says, almost a question. 

“Well, yeah — I mean, I assumed as much.” 

Louis opens his mouth to respond, then closes it — dumbfounded. _What the fuck?_

“In fact, you’ve made it your life's mission to make sure I don’t get too big an ego.” 

“It’s my job,” Louis replies automatically. They can’t seriously be having this conversation, especially not when Louis is balls deep inside of him. He studies Harry closely; if there was _anything_ Louis thought he was being obvious about — “You really don’t know?” 

“Know what?” 

“You can’t honestly think I was being serious when I teased you about getting a big ego.” 

“Of course not,” Harry says. He’s moving leisurely now, like they’ve got all the time in the world. “You always made me feel so good about myself, made me confident. Wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” 

Louis presses a kiss to his lips at that, nips at his jaw. “I teased you, because I thought _I_ was giving you a big ego,” he tells him. 

Harry falters, his hips stuttering slightly. “What?” 

“I thought I was obvious,” he says. “I thought, ‘he’s gonna get a big head and all because I can’t keep my hands to myself and stop telling him how pretty he is.’” 

“Lou—”

“He’s going to take one look at me and know how completely wrapped around his finger I am,” Louis continues. “Fuck, your arms,” he says, biting a kiss into his bicep. “The day you started working out — _God_.” He shakes his head, runs his hands up Harry’s chest. “Your pecs.” He kisses a nipple, sucks it into his mouth. Harry throws his head back and whines. “Pretty tits,” he says. “Love your hips and your thighs.” Honestly, just the thought of Harry’s thighs would make his mouth water a little. He loves this position so much; loves being able to watch Harry’s thighs clench as he rides him. He loves running his hands over them. 

Louis cradles his face, making Harry look at him. “You are absolutely stunning,” he says. “I’m not just saying that because we’re dating now. I’ve always thought you were the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen. I get weak in the knees sometimes, just looking at you. Beautiful, gorgeous, so God damn sexy.” 

Harry hides his face in Louis’ neck again, for a completely different reason this time. Louis is absolutely charmed by his ability to be so sexy and confident, yet bashful at the same time. 

“Lou,” Harry whines. 

“No, no, no. You were fishing for compliments, I’m delivering. Don’t even get me started on your legs and your arse. And your back? God damn, I love your back. And your hands. I am particularly fond of your fingers,” he quips. “I love your hair,” he adds, tugging a little at his curls. “You _know_ how much I love your hair.” 

Harry doesn’t argue with that, just sits up again. “You were upset when I cut it,” Harry says. 

Louis shrugs. “It’s grown on me,” he says. “Love your hair always.” 

“Would you grow your hair out again if I asked you to?” 

“Absolutely not.” He grins. “Now are you going to hurry it up, or am I going to have to take care of this myself,” he says, gesturing towards where they’re joined; Harry’s barely moving anymore. 

“Sorry, daddy. Am I not doing a good enough job? Thought you wanted us to take our time?” 

“Fucking hell, you’re terrible.” He rolls them over, keeping a firm grip on Harry, though he still slides out of him accidentally. Harry pouts, wrapping his legs around Louis’ waist and trying to pull him back in. “Patience, baby, I’ll take care of you.” 

“ _Daddy_ ,” Harry whines. He’s not joking this time. 

Louis slams back into him, fucks him fast and hard like that, nearly bending Harry in half so he can kiss his ridiculous mouth. 

He curls a hand around Harry’s cock, pumps it lazily. “Gonna come for daddy?” 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, nods. “Yeah, yeah.” 

“Hey.” He noses at Harry’s cheek, drops a kiss there. “I love you, sweetheart.” 

Harry comes between them shortly after, squeezing so tight around Louis, he follows suit. 

“I love you, too,” he says. 

✰✰✰

Thirty minutes later, they’re back in bed, this time with cubes of watermelon and strawberries on a plate between them. Louis is humming _Watermelon Sugar_ under his breath. Harry is at the end of the bed, lying on his stomach, half of him hanging off the edge. Neither of them had bothered to put their clothes back on. 

Harry rolls over and says, “So are we going to talk about it?” 

Playing innocent, Louis asks, “Talk about what?” 

“The whole — multiple universe, alternate universe thing. Was it real?” 

Louis doesn’t meet his gaze, instead opting to stare at the ceiling. His fingers are sticky with watermelon juice. “It felt real,” he whispers. “It felt _so real_. But how is that even possible?” 

Harry doesn’t answer. 

“That woman, she—”

“Woman? What woman?” 

Louis sits upright, realization dawning on him. He feels like such an idiot. Of course, he should have— “The one who kissed me,” he says. She was _real_ at least. 

“The one in the picture?” He’s frowning. It’s a familiar frown, but there’s no possible way he’s actually jealous of this woman, who kissed him _without his consent_. Fairy godmother or not. 

“We have to find her. She can tell me.” 

Harry’s frown deepens. He sits up. “Right now?” 

Louis deflates and shakes his head. “No, no of course not. I don’t even know how I’d find her.” 

Harry’s still pouting. When he crawls over to Louis, kissing him on the lips, he says, “I wanna fuck you.” 

He _is_ jealous, good God. Still. It’s not like Louis is going to say _no_. “Yeah, okay.” 

His pout deepens. “Your excitement is overwhelming.” 

Louis smiles briefly and kisses him back. “I, um, I actually need to tell you something. A couple things.” 

Harry sits back on his heels. “What?” 

“You’re going to be mad.” 

“ _What_?” 

“If it was real, the other universes, I, uh — I had sex with alternate universe you… a lot. Like, _a lot_ a lot.” 

“Oh.” Harry laughs. “Is that all?” 

“You’re not mad?” 

Harry shrugs. “Why would I be mad?” 

Louis blinks and then blinks again. “Uh, I don’t know. You got jealous over Eleanor. You’re jealous because a fairy lady kissed me on the cheek. Why _wouldn’t_ you be upset?” 

Harry frowns. “That’s different. This is me. A different me, sure, but still me. And if it was real — and that’s a pretty big if — it brought you to me, so it’s worth it in the end.” He hums. “As long as I’m still the best.” 

Louis snorts. “Of course you are, darling.” 

Harry beams. “So what was the other thing you wanted to tell me? Or was that all?” 

He looks up at the ceiling, certain Harry’s going to be upset about this. “Remember the first time you fucked me?” 

“Vaguely,” he says. “I remember being really nervous.” 

“Yeah. You wouldn’t fuck me until you thought Zayn was going to beat you to it.” 

“You did that on purpose.” 

Louis laughs. “No, I promise, I really didn’t.” 

Harry huffs. “Whatever. I was intimidated and _in love_. You were pretty and older and experienced, and I wanted to be good for you.” 

“You’re always good for me, baby.” Louis tucks a strand of hair behind his ear but it just bounces back. “You told me, that night when we got back, you said, ‘I’m the only one who gets to fuck you.’” 

Harry’s cheeks pinken ever so slightly. “I was _completely besotted_ with you,” he says. “I’ll never understand how you didn’t see that.” 

Louis tilts his head back against the bed frame and closes his eyes. “I didn’t let anyone.” 

“There’s a long silence. “You didn’t let anyone what?” Harry asks slowly. 

“Since that day, I haven’t let anyone fuck me except you,” he says. “I’ve exclusively topped for everyone else.” 

It’s quiet for long enough, Louis risks a glance. Sure enough, Harry’s expression has gone stoney. 

“Are you kidding me?” 

Louis shakes his head even though he knows the question is rhetorical. 

“God, Lou, I can’t believe you. I don’t know whether to be angry at you for not telling me — I mean, _why_? We could have figured this out _a lot_ sooner, y’know?” 

“Or?” Louis continues. 

“Huh?” 

“Angry at me or? Is there a second option?” 

Harry studies him. He leans forward quickly and kisses him hard. “You’re ridiculous. Have you been tested recently? Are you clean?” 

Louis blinks, confused. “Uh, yes. I am. Why?” 

“Great. Me too.” He gathers the top of his hair in his hand, tying it into a tiny bun. It should look ridiculous, but Louis already knows why he’s doing it, and he feels a thrill shoot through him. “Wanna eat you out, make you come,” Harry says, “and then I wanna fuck you raw, make you come again.” 

“Jesus, fuck.” 

Harry leans in again, kissing him. “You’re mine.” 

“You’re so possessive, what the fuck?” 

“Mine,” he repeats. “All mine. Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly who I was when you fell in love with me.” 

Louis shakes his head, but kisses him back fondly. “All yours.” 

✰✰✰

They take a shower together once Louis can actually walk. Fucking, Harry Styles. Wouldn’t be able to tell he was ever nervous about fucking Louis, not based on how he does it now, like he’s trying to see how useless he can make him afterwards. Louis has to actually lean against the shower wall; he can barely stand. Harry washes his hair for him to make up for it, but he’s grinning the entire time. 

Louis pinches him in the side. “Fucking narcissist.” 

“You’re fucking this narcissist.” Harry doesn’t stop smiling. “This narcissist is the only one who gets to fuck you.” 

“You’re never going to let that go are you?” 

“Nope.” 

“I shouldn’t have said anything.” He doesn’t ask who all Harry’s let fuck him and vis versa. He doesn't want to know. He does ask, “Have you ever… subbed for anyone else?” 

“God, no,” Harry answers immediately. “You’re the only one I trust like that. I tried once and—” He shakes his head. “It wasn’t the same.” 

Some of the tension he’s been holding in his shoulders loosens. 

“Honestly, it’s probably the reason I was so difficult when we weren’t having sex.” 

Louis’ eyes have drifted shut of their own accord. Harry might have to carry him back to bed. “Hmm?” 

“If I go too long without playing, I get stressed out, too in my head. Had to talk myself out of texting you, begging for some kind of attention.” 

“Yeah?” 

Harry nods. “I’d find myself reaching for my phone, ready to text you something like _daddy, I need you_ just to see what you would do.” 

Louis swallows. “I would have,” he says truthfully. “Whatever you needed, whenever.” He would have dropped everything. 

“Yeah?” Their eyes lock. 

Louis nods, and Harry kisses him. 

“We’ve been so stupid.” 

✰✰✰

After their shower, Louis watches Harry sit on the closed toilet lid, towel around his waist, and put his rings back on. 

“We’re idiots,” Louis tells him. It seems to be the running theme of the night. Harry just hums in question, and Louis sighs. “How many of those have I bought you?” 

Harry pauses his ministrations, pursing his lips in thought. “Most of them. You didn’t buy me these two,” he says, holding out the H and the S still in his palm. 

No, he didn’t, because he would have bought Harry an L and a T, because he’s hilarious and also just as possessive as Harry is except where Harry fucks Louis until he can’t walk, Louis just covers him in jewelry. 

He’s been buying Harry _jewelry_ this entire time. _Jewelry_. He bought Harry a pearl necklace, which Harry has consistently been wearing since. He’s not wearing it now, but they just got out of the shower, and he’s not wearing his cross either. 

Louis sighs. “Stay right there.” He slips out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, opening his sock drawer — he sees the irony in this — to pull out the box he’s had hidden in there since… God, he doesn’t even know. Much too long. He carries it back to the bathroom, and Harry zeroes in on it. He stares at it with the same look he gets whenever he knows he’s about to receive something pretty from Louis: all soft curiosity and barely masked eagerness. 

“This is the first ring I ever bought you,” Louis tells him.

Harry’s eyebrows furrow. “You never gave it to me.” Louis shakes his head pointlessly. “Why?” 

Louis presses his lips together and then decides, _fuck it_. They’ve come this far. It’s unlikely he’s going to be scaring Harry off now. 

“Because it’s an engagement ring.” 

Predictably, Harry’s mouth drops open. He looks from Louis’ face down to the box. He doesn’t look scared off. If anything, he looks somehow even _more_ eager. 

God, Louis is going to marry this boy one day. 

“I didn’t buy it as an engagement ring,” he clarifies. 

Harry hasn’t taken his eyes off the box. He holds out his hands. “Gimme.” 

Louis pushes him back with a finger to his forehead, because he’s actually started to lean forward and make grabby hands towards the box. Harry pouts. 

“I’m going to give it to you, be patient.” 

Satisfied that he’ll get it at some point, Harry leans back and sits on his hands. 

“This is the first ring I bought you,” Louis repeats. “I was at a jewelry store, because I was supposed to be seen buying something for Eleanor.” 

Louis has told Harry, time and time again, that he holds no attraction for Eleanor in any way — even if she hadn’t been paid to date him; he wasn’t interested in her that way. Harry still gets the same look on his face every time she’s brought up: anger and poorly masked hurt. 

“You _were_ seen buying jewelry for her,” Harry says, voice gone hard. Even after all this time. “That’s when those rumors spread that you two were getting married.” 

It makes perfect sense why the rumor had spread about their engagement; he had, for all intents and purposes, bought an engagement ring. 

“I didn’t buy anything for Eleanor,” he tells Harry, because it’s clear he’s losing the plot. 

“But you did,” Harry argues, not looking up. His hands are tangled together in his lap now. He looks eighteen again. He twirls one of the rings on his fingers. “There are pictures of you.” 

“I didn’t buy anything for Eleanor,” he repeats. “I bought something for you.” 

Harry looks up immediately, eyes on him before they flash to the box in Louis’ hand. 

“Two birds, one stone. I was supposed to be seen buying something, and I was. Everyone thought it was for Eleanor, so management was happy. The rumors were an added bonus in their opinion. And I got to buy you something, even though I never actually gave it to you. But that’s what sparked my obsession with buying you rings.” 

He touches the rings on Harry’s fingers. Save for the H and the S, which Harry still hasn’t put on, Louis remembers buying every single one of them. 

“Why did you want to buy me something?” Harry asks, voice gone soft. 

Louis shrugs, not meeting his gaze. “It wasn’t my intention originally. I didn’t know what I was going to do. Buy something for my mom or Lottie, maybe, one of my sisters. But I saw it and thought of you. I knew things had been hard for you, hard for us,” he amends, “and I wanted to make it up to you.” 

“Baby,” Harry starts, but Louis shakes his head, doesn’t let him finish. 

“I didn’t want to buy Eleanor anything; I wanted to buy _you_ something. I wasn’t thinking. I just knew I had to buy it for you. And when I got back to the hotel it hit me: I had just bought you an _engagement_ ring, and we weren’t even dating. So I hid it, and I’ve been hiding it ever since. But I couldn't shake it off. So I bought you a different ring, one less… obvious.” 

“Louis,” Harry pleads. “Can I see it now?” 

“It’s not an engagement ring,” he repeats. “This isn’t me proposing. And also, you probably can’t wear it because…” Because it _screams_ engagement ring. Because it screams ostentatious. Because it screams _I spent more money on this than all your other rings combined_. “Well, you’ll see.” 

He hands the box to Harry and watches him open it. Harry’s hands are shaking. _Louis’_ hands are shaking, quite nervous now, wondering if he’s about to find out he’s been carrying a ring around for too many years, a ring Harry’s not even going to like. 

It’s flashy, to put it mildly. The jeweler had originally tried to interest Louis in a different ring, something smaller, that didn’t weigh quite so much, something a little more delicate. Louis had been sold on this one the second he saw it. It’s dainty still, regardless of what the jeweler thinks, but the diamond in the center is a chunk of a thing; it’s surrounded by smaller diamonds in a shape the jeweler had described as a snowflake, but Louis thinks resembles a flower. 

“Holy shit,” Harry finally says. 

“Too much?” Louis asks, trying for teasing, but falling short. 

Harry doesn’t reply, too busy taking off all his other rings. Louis opens his mouth to say _people will know_ and then snaps it shut when Harry slides the new ring onto his ring finger. 

“You like it then?” Louis ends up saying instead; his voice comes out soft, quiet. He gets pleasure from seeing Harry wear the things he buys him, always has, but this, this is even worse. He might as well have tattooed _mine_ on him. 

Harry looks up at him, eyes watery. Louis has to close his own eyes for a moment and just breathe. 

He doesn’t care if people know. He’s two seconds away from screaming it from the mountaintops himself. 

Of course, Harry breaks and says, “How’re you going to top this when you actually ask me to marry you?” 

“So confident, are you?” he teases. Harry just blinks. “I’ll think of something. Maybe I’ll tattoo my name on your finger.” 

Harry rolls his eyes but at least he’s not crying anymore. “You’re not that good of a tattoo artist, Lou.” 

Louis doesn’t dignify that with a response. 

“We’ve been together for almost ten years,” Harry says. “Maybe we didn’t know it, but we have been. I know you said it’s not an engagement ring, but… you’re it for me.” 

Louis is finding it a little hard to breathe around the sudden emotion in his chest. “I’m not proposing to you in the bathroom,” he manages. 

Harry doesn’t fall for his attempt at a teasing tone. “You know I wouldn’t care.” 

“Oh, really? Don’t want me to do something cliche, like take you to Paris? Or a fancy restaurant? Don’t want me to pull out all the stops, take you somewhere special like that hotel we used to stay at? I could rent a room and fill it with sunflowers and candles. Get down on one knee and tell you how I want to spend every single day for the rest of my life waking up next to you, how I wanna have kids with you, grow old with you. But if you’re fine with the bathroom…” He starts to get down on one knee, excruciatingly slow, but Harry’s eyes have already started filling up with tears again. Louis squats in front of him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Baby, I _know_ you.” 

“I thought I said no to the baby,” Harry sniffles. 

Louis sighs and wipes away Harry’s tears, doesn’t point out that Harry called him baby literally two minutes ago. “You’re _my_ baby,” he says instead. “Always be my baby. I love you.” 

“You’ve thought about this,” Harry guesses. 

“Since the moment I realized I was in love with you. Before then, even.” 

“So we’re on the same page.” 

Louis chuckles. “Are we having a relationship talk?” 

“Ten years in the making.” 

“In the bathroom of all places.” 

Harry shrugs. “It’s fitting. We met in a bathroom.” 

“That’s fair,” Louis allows. “Are you going to pee on me again?” 

“Maybe.”

He takes Harry’s hands in his own, intertwines their fingers. “I love you,” he says. “I don’t want anyone else. Even before I knew I loved you, I knew I didn’t want anyone else. The thought of you with anyone else made me physically sick to my stomach. One day I will marry you.” He looks down at Harry’s ring and touches it lightly with one finger. “Consider this a placeholder for the time being.”

Harry surges forward and kisses him, hands framing Louis’ face. “I love you, I love you, I love you,” he repeats, pulling at Louis until Louis gets the hint and climbs into his lap. Harry stands up, arms tight on Louis’ thighs, and carries him into the bedroom. 

“We just took a shower,” Louis points out, falling backwards onto the bed with Harry hovering over him. 

“Gonna marry you,” Harry tells him. “We’re going to get _married_. You’re going to be my _husband_. I need to have sex with you right now.”

And well, Louis can’t very well argue with that. 

In the morning he’ll find the fairy godmother or maybe he won’t. It doesn’t matter. Right now he has his boy in his arms; everything else can wait. 

“Hey.” He cups Harry’s face in his hands. “Forever,” he says. 

Harry smiles. “Forever.”

In every universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) come say hi on [tumblr](https://28finelines.tumblr.com/) and [reblog the post](https://28finelines.tumblr.com/post/633509846464987136/every-universe-but-ours-louis-and-harry-have-been) if you feel so inclined. <3


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